A Curtain Falls (36 page)

There’s a singular moment I wait for in every investigation when disjointed fragments of evidence magically come together and present the solution whole. Sometimes it happens because of hard work or astute thinking. But more often, it’s the result of a lucky break, like the one we had just gotten from Mrs. Vandergriff.

We crossed Fifth Avenue and walked south along the edge of Central Park.

“It makes perfect sense now that we know,” Alistair said, shaking his head in disbelief, “but I swear to you he gave no sign in any of my dealings with him.”

“Or mine,” I said dryly. “Yet you’ve told me before that the most diabolical killers are those who best deceive their closest friends and associates.”

“His public persona utterly masks his psychotic tendencies. Unlike many killers I’ve interviewed, he has no social maladjustment,” Alistair said. He tapped his fingers together. “Do you prefer to see Mulvaney on your own, or would you like me to accompany you downtown?”

“I’m not going to Mulvaney— not yet.”

“Why in heaven’s name not? A moment ago, you couldn’t wait to see him.” Alistair’s voice filled with exasperation. “Everything we did last night and this morning was designed to help you provide Mulvaney with sufficient evidence to exonerate Poe and secure Robert Coby’s— I mean Jack’s— arrest.” He patted the briefcase he carried, which contained the picture we had borrowed from Mrs. Vandergriff.

“With a man like Jack Bogarty, it’s not enough. I see that now.” I quickened my pace. “Jack is too smooth and polished. If you put him on the witness stand with insufficient evidence, he’ll charm the jury into granting him an acquittal.”

Alistair spread his hands wide in amazement. “How can you say that before he’s even been tried? We have a lot connecting him to these crimes. It’s as though you don’t trust our legal system to handle the evidence you would provide them.”

But my conviction only grew as I spoke. “He will argue that we’ve made a terrible mistake and charged the wrong man based on circumstantial evidence. I’ve seen it happen before, in fact— just over a week ago.”

I explained to him about Lydia Snyder, who had been on trial for poisoning her husband. Despite evidence pointing undeniably in her direction, she had used her charm and personality to persuade the jury to ignore all circumstantial evidence that damned her.

“And since it was a murder case, all they needed was reasonable doubt to acquit her.” Alistair understood, taking me seriously now.

“Jack Bogarty would be just like her,” I said. “He’s a successful theater critic who is well liked and respected. Plenty of people will believe he could never do such a thing. We won’t succeed in putting this man behind bars if we can’t secure the evidence that will pin him to these killings. He has sufficient personal charisma to sway any jury. And if they acquit him, he will do as he’s done before: disappear into a new life with a new name. And the killings will continue.”

“You’re right about his behavioral pattern,” Alistair said at last. “And if you truly don’t trust the prosecution to build an airtight case against him based on the circumstances—”

“It’s not a matter of trust. I’m saying that for some people— those like Jack Bogarty— you need something tighter than mere circumstance to bind them to their crimes. We’ve got to catch him in the act.”

We were silent for a moment. Then Alistair said, “It sounds like you have something already in mind.”

“I do. But I need a few hours to pull it together. I need you to approach Mulvaney tonight and convince him to come to
Romeo and Juliet.
”

“But why don’t you—”

Ignoring the apprehension that filled his face, I said, “I’ll meet you there.
Romeo and Juliet.
Bring Mulvaney half an hour after the show ends.”

The Fortune Club, 30 Pell Street

“Not as a favor,” I said, pulling an envelope from my coat pocket. “What I want is a straight business arrangement.”

Nick Scarpetta grunted, then ground the butt of his cigar into the ashtray beside him. He reached a thick hand toward the small black candlestick telephone on the left side of his desk and pulled it to him. “Get me Underwood 342,” he said.

I waited, listening as the operator connected him.

That he would help me, I’d had no doubt. Nicky had rescued me from a tough spot on more than one occasion— in fact, probably more often than I even knew. When I was a child, he had been a familiar figure at my mother’s door, overcoming her objections, returning my father’s gambling losses to her in secret. “For you and the children. Make sure
he
don’t see a cent of it,” he’d mumble before he disappeared yet again— only to
resurface during the next crisis. Just months ago, he had used his connections to help me locate Isabella before a killer took her life.

He had always kept a benevolent eye on me, never too far away, though my role as a police detective had placed some strain on our relationship. Nicky was a pivotal figure within the criminal underworld, but so far, I’d been able to maintain my friendship with him— without entangling myself in his darker dealings. But I also knew that the more I asked of him, the less likely I’d be able to maintain that separation.

That was why today I asked no favors. I approached Nicky this time as a paying customer, knowing his ser vices did not come cheap.

The telephone connection was finally made. “This is Louie, right? I need you and Isador. My place. Fifteen minutes.” It was all Nicky said before he returned the receiver to its hook. He had eventually installed a telephone out of necessity, but he never conducted business over it, quite rightly concerned about those eavesdropping. Business was done in person, from the back room of his saloon.

“Two men for one evening,” he said gruffly.

I pulled several bills from the envelope. “Five hundred, right?”

He nodded and tucked the money away almost the moment I produced it.

“There’s one more thing,” I began delicately. “My father is back in town.”

Nicky let forth a loud guffaw. “Tell me something I don’t know. Took him what— two weeks?— before he was in debt at every joint downtown.”

“How much does he owe you?”

“Too much.” He looked at me with no small mea sure of concern in his drooping, baggy eyes. “Why?”

“Because I intend to repay his debt to you,” I said. I lifted my chin and looked at him with a calm, steady gaze.

He opened the large humidor centered on his desk and I breathed in the pungent odor of Spanish cedar, which was so strong that it actually overpowered the scent of tobacco. He chose a cigar with care, then reached for a match and lit it in a motion that was surprisingly fluid for a man with thick stubs for fingers.

He took several puffs from the cigar before he spoke. “You got no cause to do that.”

“No,” I smiled ruefully, “but I intend to all the same. How much— one thousand? Or more like two?”

They were large numbers, but I never underestimated my father’s misplaced faith in a pair of aces.

He leaned forward across his desk and fixed me with a firm look. “He don’t deserve it. Not the way he treated you— not to mention the fine woman who was your mother.”

I remained firm. “Agreed. But I’m still paying it.”

Nicky smoked in silence for some moments, just thinking as he puffed perfect O rings that rose to the ceiling.

My goal was to square things all around with Nicky. I had done that in part by paying for the ser vices of his henchmen, whose help I needed tonight. But I also needed to repay my father’s debt if I was to clear all obligations. In recent months, I had lived in trepidation that Nicky would call in a favor I’d be loath to grant yet afraid to refuse. And so, in buying my father’s freedom, I also secured my own.

“Fifteen hundred,” he said at last.

It represented two years’ salary— and many more years of saving and scrimping.

For a split second, I hesitated.
Do I really want to do this? It would be so easy to walk away. . . .

But instead, I took a deep breath and paid it, receiving his note in return.

Then we spoke of happier topics until his men arrived. Louie and Isador, the two henchmen I’d hired to assist me, appeared more than capable of providing the brute strength I feared I would need. Louie, a tall African man with chiseled muscles, had been a boxer before Nicky offered him more profitable employment. And Isador, Nicky’s distant cousin, was short, squat, and reputed to be handy with a knife.

They were all ears when I explained what I needed from them.

I met with my father afterward at The Emerald Isle— the same bar where I had first met with Molly Hansen, following Annie Germaine’s murder. After I explained how I needed his help, he regarded me with somber eyes.

“I heard from Nicky this afternoon. He sent a personal message saying I’m square with him. How can that be?”

“I took care of it,” I said, my voice even.

“You paid him off?”

I nodded.

“You don’t have that kind of money,” he said darkly. “I owed him over a thousand. Exactly what kind of deal did you make?”

I smiled at the irony of it. My father had made every kind of deal over the years with far worse than the likes of Nicky
Scarpetta. And yet he was incensed to think I might have done the same.

“I do have that kind of money, actually. I’ve saved up over the years.” I shrugged. “You forget, I once had other goals and plans. . . .”

His mouth opened the moment it dawned on him. “It was because you meant to marry the girl, wasn’t it? Now I see.” He set his mouth firmly. “You shouldn’t have done that, Simon. Not for me. I’m not long for this world, and there will be other women—”

“I did it for me,” I said sharply. “I needed Nicky’s help— or at least that of his henchmen. So do me a favor. If you’ve got to keep playing cards, do it somewhere else. Not at Nicky’s. Not anymore.”

I found it strange that he had any concerns on this matter. But the money no longer represented my future with Hannah; in fact, it never had. What it represented was security: specifically, the kind I’d never had growing up.

I’d been harsher than I’d intended. But now that I’d satisfied any obligation I had to Nicky, I didn’t want further trouble from my father. I left him, still nursing his pint of Guinness, with a simple reminder.

“The Lyceum Theater.
Romeo and Juliet.
I’ll need you in position with Molly right after the show ends.”

The Lyceum Theater, 149 West Forty-fifth Street

The curtain fell to rapt applause— with a standing ovation for Helen Bell’s performance as Juliet.

I waited for some twenty minutes, my nerves on end, before I emerged from the crossover behind the set. The theater had emptied.

I lit a match— held it high— then blew it out.

Looking up at the catwalk, I saw Louie’s answering signal that he was in position and all was quiet.

I checked on Isador in person. When I called out to him, he emerged from his hiding area behind the curtain.

“Everything’s fine?”

“Good here, boss.”

I gave him a quick nod. “Keep watch. I’ll be back.”

Turning the corner toward Helen Bell’s dressing room
backstage, I paused. I had the distinct sense that I was being watched. But no one was in sight.

I was on edge, that was all.

My father answered my knock, opening the door to Miss Bell’s room. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, beaming. “Come in.”

I entered the room, careful to avoid several bouquets of flowers that obstructed the entry. To night, the tiny space over-flowed with flowers and cards sent by well-wishers.

Miss Bell sat at her dressing table, biting her lip.

“See here, I told you my son would come to make things all right.”

My father smiled. Miss Bell didn’t.

“I’m Detective Simon Ziele,” I said, pulling a chair close to her. “My father has already explained to you that you’re in danger tonight. But you’ve no reason to be afraid. I’ve asked him to take you to a safe place.”

“Do you really believe Charlie means to kill me?” Her voice betrayed her fear.

Charlie—the false name he’d given her.

“I do, Miss Bell.” Then I forced myself to sound confident. “But don’t worry, we’re going to stop him. Another actress is going to take your place.
She
will risk any danger by acting as your decoy.” I turned to my father. “Is Molly ready?”

“Just next door,” he said. “I’ll get her.”

I had asked my father— a master of disguise— to help Molly become a believable substitute for Miss Bell. But I wasn’t prepared for the sight of her when she walked through the door— for Molly Hansen had been transformed into Helen Bell’s identical twin. Her curls were gone, replaced by a wig
that replicated Helen’s straight brown locks. Her freckles-and-cream coloring, likewise, had been camouflaged by grease-paint to reproduce Helen’s darker olive tones. She already had the same build as Helen’s, and now she wore identical clothes. In short, she made a mirror image of the woman she intended to replace this night.