1 Runaway Man (14 page)

“Did you phone it in?” Legs demanded as we spelunked our way in and out of a crater-sized pothole at West 86th.

“Didn’t see any need to.” I reached into my coat pocket and removed the Ziploc sandwich bag with the slug inside. “I dug this out of the wall of the building with my pocket knife. It’s a nine-mil.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he growled, snatching the bag from me.

“Bruce Weiner was shot with a nine-mil.”

“You’re not peddling a same gun, same shooter scenario, are you?”

“Why, what’s wrong with it?”

“Any pro who works for the Leetes Group is careful, that’s what.”

“Maybe he’s figuring he doesn’t have to be careful.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because he knows no one’s going to connect a shooting in Northwest Connecticut with a shooting in Greenwich Village. And even if they do they’ll never follow up on it.”

“Because?…”

“They’ll be told not to.”

“Okay, now you’re just starting to piss me off.”

“The hell I am. You’re loving this. We’re working our first big case together. You feel like a proud uncle. Admit it.”

Legs didn’t admit it. What he said was, “I won’t feel real proud if you get yourself killed. You should have called me.”

“It was late.”

“You should have called me,” he said again. “I’ve got no police report of a shooting on West 12th. No chain of evidence. This damned slug could have come from anywhere. Plus you probably got your greasy prints all over it.”

“I had gloves on. And I left the other two slugs there. This one passed through a full trash barrel before it hit the wall. I figured it would be the least mangled, not that it matters.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?”

“Something tells me we’re not going to crack this case with traditional ballistics evidence.”

“Who’s this
we,
white man?”

“These are powerful people, Legs. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to silence Bruce and Kathleen. And they’ll go to even more trouble to shut down any official investigation into their deaths.” I held on for dear life as he made a hard left on two wheels at West 81st Street. “We’ll have to resort to other methods.”

“You may be right about that,” he admitted, peering at me curiously. “Your voice sounds deeper today. Did you get laid last night?”

“There is that possibility.”

“You got a girl on West 12th?”

“I got a girl on West 12th.”

“Good for you, little bud.”

We started our way across Central Park on the 79th Street Transverse. Some traces of slush were still clinging to the bare frozen ground there.

“I reached out to your boy Marco Battalino in Litchfield,” Legs reported.

“And?…”

“And he pretty much confirmed what you told me—he’s a complete douche. But Claudia schooled me on how to play it. I convinced him that not only is he in total charge, but that the high and mighty NYPD desperately needs his expert help. Worked like a charm. He gave up all sorts of details on the Candlewood Lake crime scene.”

“Like what?”

“Like the shoe prints they found in the snow. They had Bruce’s—he was a huge guy who had on a pair of size-fourteen Nikes. They had your size-nine Rockports. You know, you have awfully big feet for such a little guy.”

“Trust me, I’ve got size where it counts.”

“Are you always this unbearable after you get laid? Wait, what am I saying? You never get laid. Who is this girl?”

“A kindergarten teacher-slash-sex maniac. I met her at shul.”

“Of course you did.”

“They found a third set of shoe prints, am I right?”

He nodded. “Presumably the shooter’s. He wore a pair of size-eight Vibram soles that are typical of a hiking boot.”

“So he’s not a big guy.”

“It isn’t an exact science. He could be a six-footer who happens to have smallish feet. Although he doesn’t weigh a whole lot. Based on the depth of his shoe impression in the snow, Marco’s techies estimate he goes about a buck-fifty.”

I mulled this over, my mind straying to someone on the smallish side who knew that Bruce was staying at Candlewood Lake—Chris Warfield. But why on earth would Bruce’s roommate, the son of a Park Avenue pediatric neurosurgeon, want him dead? And what possible connection could Chris have had with Kathleen Kidd? Besides, Chris was a college student, not a Leetes Group pro. Chris hadn’t bugged our car and our office. Chris hadn’t taken three shots at me last night on West 12th Street. That made no sense it, did it? “How about the shooter’s tire prints?” I asked Legs Diamond.

“The techies identified them as a well-worn set of Goodyear Eagle RS-A four-season radials. That particular tire was factory spec on the 2009 Jeep Grand Cherokee. Wheel base measurements happen to be a dead-nuts match for a Grand Cherokee. I told your boy Marco I’d be happy to check the tollbooth cams for any and all Grand Cherokees that entered the city late that evening.”

“That was smart of you.”

“Yo, I’m a smart guy. Trouble is, so’s our shooter. He probably ditched the Grand Cherokee out there somewhere and returned to the city—
if
he returned to the city—in a different ride. Or maybe he checked into a motel out there and came back the next morning. Marco liked the motel angle. He’s got his people checking the area to see if anyone registered that night who happened to own a Grand Cherokee. That reminds me…” Legs dug into the pocket of his aged leather trench coat and yanked out a folded computer printout. “That’s everyone who signed in with the doorman of Kathleen Kidd’s building in the two hours prior to her death.”

“Thanks.” I slid it into the chest pocket of my sincere Harris Tweed jacket to peruse later. If I tried to read it while he was veering in and out of the transverse traffic I would lose my fried egg sandwich. “What about Bruce’s DNA?”

“Done deal. Marco gave me his word that he’ll share if I’ll share. He’s fast tracking it through their forensics lab in Meriden.”

“And how about Kathleen’s?”

He puffed out his cheeks. “I got us what we need but it’s going to cost me.”

“How so?”

“On a certain fixed date in a few weeks I have to put on a tuxedo and escort a certain assistant medical examiner named Tat—that’s short for Tatiana—to her sister’s wedding.”

“She has a crush on you?”

“She’s a nice young lady of the Ukrainian persuasion who’s somewhat plain of face and has a job that most men find horrifying.”

“And she has a crush on you.”

“Maybe a tiny one,” he allowed.

“So you’re playing her.”

“
She’s
playing
me
. I have to go a freakin’ Brighton Beach wedding. It’ll take my liver a week to detox from all of the vodka.” He glanced over at me. “You were right. Kathleen did give birth to a child. Tat found vaginal scarring. She took a blood sample for me. As soon as your boy Marco coughs up Bruce’s DNA we’ll know if we have a match. She also ran Kathleen’s blood for alcohol and drugs.”

“And?…”

“The drugs in her system match the prescription bottles we found in her medicine chest. Kathleen was taking a combination of lithium and Seroquel XR. That’s strong shit. There were no red flags in terms of how much she had in her system. But her blood alcohol level was .16—twice the legal limit to drive in the state of New York. The lady was hammered when she went off of that balcony. I spoke to her psychiatrist, Dr. Schwartz, again. He harrumphed at me about doctor-patient confidentiality but he did allow as how Kathleen suffered from ‘black moods.’ He wouldn’t rule out suicide.” Legs’ face tightened. “Except Tat found something on Kathleen’s body that doesn’t fit with the suicide scenario.”

“What was it?”

“Fresh bruises around her upper arms that are consistent with finger indentations.”

“Wait, I thought you told me there were no—”

“I didn’t see them when I examined her on the sidewalk. She was wearing a long-sleeved sweater, okay? That’s why the ME’s office does a more thorough examination. They find things we don’t.”

“So someone squeezed her by the arms?”

“Someone squeezed her by the arms.”

“Can they can get fingerprints off of her sweater?”

“There was no trace evidence. He was probably wearing gloves.”

“Big hands?”

“Not particularly.”

“Which is consistent with the shoe prints they found at Candlewood Lake.”

“So you’re assuming it’s the same guy.”

“You’re not?”

“If the Leetes Group is behind this we could be talking about a whole crew.”

“Does this give you enough to open a homicide investigation into her death?”

“Officially? No. Officially, none of this is making it into Kathleen’s autopsy report. Tat told me her office has been ordered to fast-track it and
not
get bogged down in details. The Kidds want it to go down as a suicide. So it’s a suicide.”

“Do you have any contacts inside of the Leetes Group?”

“You’ll never get a peep out of Jake Leetes or anyone who works for him. He pays them to keep their mouths shut.”

“Does he pay them to carry out contract hits?”

“The Leetes Group is a licensed, law-abiding detective agency. I’ve heard of unfortunate things happening to certain undesirables who were harassing, bilking or otherwise pissing off certain well-heeled clients. I’ve also heard that Jake keeps ex-Special Forces guys on the payroll. But that’s strictly chatter. And if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking forget it. I can’t compel the Leetes Group to cooperate. I’d need a court order and I’ll never get one because—wait for it—I have no actual evidence to take to the DA, remember?”

We came bursting out of Central Park at Fifth Avenue, where Legs made a sharp right and joined the taxis and limos that were inching their way down toward Midtown. As we drew closer to East 69
th
the traffic came to a total standstill. Wasn’t hard to see why. I could make out the bulge of TV news vans that were double-parked there from two blocks away. We ditched the car in a no-parking zone and hoofed it the rest of the way.

A raucous mob of reporters, TV cameramen and paparazzi was crowded outside of the elegant, prewar doorman building overlooking Central Park where Eleanor Saltonstall Kidd, Kathleen’s elderly billionaire mother, maintained her New York City residence. I think the old lady had something like eight or ten other residences scattered around the world. I also think she owned the entire building, which occupied a half block of precious Fifth Avenue frontage and seventeen stories of air space. The media people were standing out there in the bitter cold hoping for some kind of a statement from her. Or, better yet, from Kathleen’s high-profile brother. All they were getting was a pair of pink-faced cops in uniform and a harried young Kidd campaign aide who seemed to be losing her mind.

“If you people would
please
show the family just a little respect,” she was pleading, which had to be the funniest line I’d heard all year.

Legs flashed his shield at the building’s white-gloved doorman. We were admitted to the lobby. There were fresh flowers in a vase at the reception desk, where another uniformed doorman was waiting for us. This one wasn’t wearing white gloves but his hands looked real clean. He called Mrs. Kidd’s apartment on the house phone. Spoke softly into it, then listened a moment before he hung up.

“Mrs. Kidd will see you,” he said, motioning us to one of the three elevators.

We got in the elevator, which was a whole lot nicer than the one we have in our building. In fact, it was the nicest elevator I’ve ever been in. It had walnut paneling, thick pile carpeting and gleaming brass work. If there’d been a bath I’d have moved right in and called it home. There was no need for us to push a button for the floor we wanted. There were no buttons to push. They were on a console at the front desk, to insure that visitors were delivered to their intended floor and nowhere else.

When the elevator door opened we discovered that we’d been delivered directly into the marble entry hall of Mrs. Kidd’s palatial digs, which seemed to occupy the top two floors of the entire goddamned building. There was a grand curving staircase up to the second floor. A bronze fountain burbled away right there before us in the entry hall. And way, way up over our heads there was a crystal chandelier that looked as if it could light up the new Yankee Stadium.

I stood there with my mouth open. I’d known that such apartments existed, same as I knew that rock stars have a great deal of casual sex and cotton candy isn’t made out of cotton. But I’d never been inside such a place. It was like walking into the main entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This was life on a whole different scale.

But the lawyer was still the same. My old nonfriend Mr. Classy Guy stood there under the chandelier waiting to greet us. Or I should say glower at us. Peter Seymour wore a custom-tailored navy blue suit today, a crisp white shirt, muted maroon tie and those same spotless mink-lined shoes. Unless he owned more than one pair and rotated them.

“Don’t forget to check out his shoes,” I murmured at Legs.

“Check out his what?”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Seymour said, as he looked Legs Diamond up and down with starchy disdain. The aged leather trench coat. Rumpled sweater and jeans, goatee. Clearly, he’d been expecting a proper suit from One Police Plaza. Someone more presentable, who smelled of polite deference and Aqua Velva. “I’m Peter Seymour, Mrs. Kidd’s legal counsel,” he stated in his burgundy baritone. “Detective Lieutenant Diamond, is it not?”

Legs nodded. “That’s me.”

“Shall I call you Larry?”

“Only if you want me to call you an ambulance.”

Seymour’s eyes widened slightly. “As you wish. Mrs. Kidd is prepared to make herself available to an appropriate individual from the NYPD for a brief few minutes. Frankly, I advised her against having this conversation. She overruled me. She said that the police have a job to do and it has always been the policy of the Kidd family to cooperate whenever, however possible.” He swiveled his patrician blade of nose in my direction. “However, she is
not
expecting young Mr. Ben Golden here.”

“I asked Ben to accompany me,” Legs said.