Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (23 page)

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Jason Malloy owned and ran Malloy’s Irish Pub downstairs on Forty-ninth Street, next to the Redwood Diner. It was the establishment closest to the revolving doors of the building that served liquor, which made it the bar of choice for Liberty staffers.

It was a little after three when I walked in. I saw Teddy Wells, a cameraman, working on a burger with a draft close by. He waved and went back to the copy of the
Post
spread out on the bar.

I headed straight to the far end, where a woman in her forties with strawberry-blonde hair stood at the register by the wait station. Rebecca was her first name, and I was willing to bet a paycheck no one at Liberty knew her last name. She was Rebecca, the barmaid/waitress.

“Have you given up drinking?” she asked, with just the last faint traces of a brogue. “It’s been weeks.”

“Been tied up on a special project,” I said.

“Yes, I’ve heard all about your special project,” she said, making the little air quotes around the words
special project
.

“Don’t believe anything anyone tells you.”

“I’d prefer not to in this case,” she said.

“Is the man of the house in?” I asked.

“He is, but you’re better off dealing with me. He’s a cranky SOB this afternoon,” she said.

“And that’s different than any other afternoon?” I asked.

She smiled and said, “His office. But consider yourself warned.”

I made my way back through the mostly empty dining room to a little office in the hallway by the bathrooms. I rapped on the door, and Malloy barked from the other side.

“Leave me alone.”

I opened the door and stepped inside, and he was behind his desk looking rumpled and like a bar owner who needed higher receipts.

“Thanks for respecting my wishes,” he snapped.

“You didn’t say go away. That tells me you really wanted company,” I said.

“Pushy reporter. The Fourth Estate used to be a respectful profession,” he said.

“The problem is, now it is a respectful profession.”

“Which is why my damn sales are in the crapper. These younger reporters don’t have the same constitution of you and those before you.”

“I’ll buy a beer on my way out, if that will help.”

“Be the first in a month,” he shot back.

Malloy was in his mid-sixties, maybe older. He was an old-time bar owner, knowing everything about everyone, which is why I was here.

“You remember the night Jack died?”

“Was early morning, and yes, I remember it like it was today,” he said.

“Who was in that night?”

“The usual group,” he said. “Guys not wanting to go home to their wives. The single guys with no wives to go home to.”

He started ticking off names of cameramen and control room guys, reporters and writers in a rambling rundown of a usual night at Malloy’s.

“Bobby P. was in; Maxine and Frank, who I swear is going to get into trouble with her before the month is out. I can see it a mile away. Then we’ll see more of him when his wife finds out, and they always do. Grace was here that night. Marty and Phil. It was a regular Who’s Who of Liberty. With the exception of you, of course,” he said.

“For the record, I work the morning shift. You’re deep into your REM cycle when I’m walking into work at four a.m.”

“Always an excuse,” he said.

“Jack ever come in anymore?”

“Not really, and certainly not that night,” he said.

“There was the whole drinking issue with him,” I said.

“Like I said, always an excuse.”

“And Marty?”

“Old reliable,” he said. “Every night after the show.”

“Dealing with Jack every day was pretty damn stressful.”

“Well, it’s not like he could get away from him here. The bastard would call him here just to chew him out. Or Marty would call to check in and act like he was a big shot with access to the great Jack Steele. They spoke that very night, as a matter of fact.”

Bingo. Marty had lied about talking to Jack. “What a lousy last memory to have of the man,” I said.

He waved a hand to dismiss the comment. “Marty reveled in it most nights, Sam. Having someone important call him. He would take the call and talk to Jack and then tell us what big name was coming on the show. Marty could drop names like a pro.”

“What about that night? He say anything about that call?”

“Not much. Marty came back here and asked me if he could use the office. Said he needed to call Jack to check in and he wanted some privacy. I think Jack was probably ripping him a new one that night and Marty didn’t want to grovel in public.”

“Just needed a place to hide, huh?”

“Sometimes you just want a place to go to keep your dignity,” he said.

“You remember what time this was?”

Malloy squinted and tried to remember. “Wasn’t too late. A bit after eleven, maybe eleven fifteen, or so.”

“And Marty didn’t say anything when he came out of here?”

“Nope. Just looked like his usual stressed-out self,” he said.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

“So Marty’s lying?” Liz asked.

“Yes. Malloy says he took a call from Jack that night. And even used his office for privacy.”

“But Marty told you he never spoke to Jack that night,” she said.

“Right. He said he wished Jack had called him.”

We were in the kitchen, unpacking a bag of Chinese food. There was a shrimp dish for Liz. I had sesame chicken. We’d ordered from Hunan Upscale Gourmet No. 1. I looked at the dish. It looked neither gourmet or very upscale.

“And this call from Marty to Jack fits smack in the time frame Robbie gave me for when she overheard Jack talking to someone,” I said. “Between eleven and eleven thirty.”

“You think Marty could have forgotten he spoke to Jack?” she asked.

“Possibly, but not likely,” I said. “We were sitting in Jack’s office reliving that night. I can’t imagine he would have forgotten that he had spoken to Jack just hours before the man died. You tend to remember things surrounding those earth-shattering events.”

We moved to the small table outside the kitchen. It was close to eight and almost dark outside.

“And the only reason he would lie would be to protect himself,” Liz said before slipping a piece of shrimp into her mouth with her chopsticks.

“Exactly.”

“Or, he’s protecting someone else,” she said when she was finished with the shrimp.

“Hadn’t really thought about that,” I said.

“Maybe he’s mixed up in this, or maybe he knows someone else who is,” she said.

“Marty also never let on that he was familiar with Michael Barnes,” I said. “I mentioned that Barnes was with McConnell at Harvard when the drug bust went down and he never flinched, even though Barnes called him that night.”

“Does the time frame for that call make sense?” she asked.

“Barnes called Marty’s number about ten to ten. Show is over at nine. They do their postmortem for maybe a half hour. Marty could easily be back at his desk when the call came in, especially if he was expecting it.”

“Then what?” Liz asked, digging some rice out of the container onto her plate.

“Then Marty goes downstairs, has a few pops and calls Jack about an hour later.”

Liz looked up as she put the pieces together. “You think that Marty …” She let the thought trail off.

“Set Jack up? He could have,” I said. “He gets the call from Barnes that a meeting is on, then he calls Jack to tell him it’s a go.”

“Jack gets there a few hours later and …” Again Liz didn’t want to finish the sentence or thought.

“It’s a setup,” I said.

We sat quiet for a minute until Liz spoke up.

“But what happened to Barnes?” she asked. “He doesn’t show up?”

“No, and I’m not sure why. Unfortunately, he’s not around to ask.”

“He didn’t give away anything at all about a meeting when you spoke with him?” she asked.

“Nothing. He was pretty cagey. He never even let on that he was in contact with Jack, or Marty. Don’t think he quite trusted me just yet.”

“I trusted you when I met you,” she said.

“Yes, which proves you have solid judgment and a keen sense of character.”

Liz smiled and said, “That’s one question that needs answering. If you think Jack was lured over there to meet Barnes, did Barnes show up? If not, why?”

“Another question is Marty,” I said.

“What could Marty Glover, executive producer at Liberty News, gain from being involved?” she asked.

“That’s where I get stuck,” I said. “Marty had a pretty prestigious job. EP of
Steele Yourself
. Number one rated show on a cable-news network. Great cocktail party currency and a way to impress the ladies.”

“Life doesn’t revolve around that,” she said.

“What?”

“Impressing the ladies, and all that may or may not follow said impressions.”

“Fine time for me to find all this out,” I said.

She smiled and picked up another shrimp with her chopsticks.

“He has a great gig, it paid well, and he seemed to be enjoying life to the degree that he allowed himself to,” I said.

“He’s a bit of a downer?” she asked.

“Can be. Always seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. I assumed it was the pressure of trying to keep Jack’s show number one,” I said. “If those numbers start to slide, things can get pretty intense.”

I moved in for a piece of Liz’s shrimp, and we sat eating in silence for a few seconds. We were both trying to find something we were overlooking that would link Marty to the events of that night.

“If Marty was involved,” I said, “it would explain Jack’s leaving the gun at home. He wasn’t threatened by Marty, that’s for sure.”

Liz put her chopsticks down, picked up her wineglass, and took a sip of her German Riesling.

“Where was Marty before this?” she asked. She had her legs crossed under the table and one foot was brushing my leg.

“That’s very distracting,” I said.

“Focus. Come on, you can do it,” she said.

“He was with Jack at some radio station in Hartford all those years ago,” I said. “See, I can focus.”

Liz smiled, had another drink of wine, and looked across the table at me. “Maybe there was something more going on behind the scenes in the life of Marty Glover,” she said.

Chapter Sixty

I was walking up Third Avenue when I saw Victor leaving the Lyric Diner on the corner of Twenty-second. He looked like an advertisement for a luau dressed in a shirt with swirls of blue and yellow and wearing knee-length maroon cargo shorts and sandals. He hailed a cab that sped off as I got to the door of the coffee shop.

It was after breakfast and before lunch, and the place was quiet. I found Freddie sitting in the back at the very last booth, facing the door and looking through a few sheets of paper as I approached.

“Hey, tough guy,” I said as I got to the table. “Supposed to be alert if you’re in the seat facing the door.”

“Saw you the whole way in,” he said without looking up. “Saw you give that waitress over by the counter a smile.”

“She’s ten years older than me. I was being polite.”

“That would make her, what, just short of ancient,” he said.

“I saw Victor leaving,” I said, sitting down across from him with my back to the door, which made me uncomfortable.

“He’s hard to miss,” he said.

“He even tops you in the Life of the Party category.”

“He’s all show. All style, no substance,” he said.

My friendly older waitress appeared, poured me coffee, topped off Freddie’s cup, and took my order for an omelet.

“No egg whites?” Freddie asked.

“Excuse me, Dr. Freddie?”

“Got enough people shooting at you, last thing you need is to survive them and get nailed by cholesterol,” he said.

“Look, can we talk about what Victor the Walking Neon Sign found out?”

Freddie slid the sheets of paper across the table. Included was a recent credit check on one Martin J. Glover, as well as his financial history. I scanned the personal information, and it was accurate. Marty lived on West Eighty-first Street. He had mentioned one time that he had been born in Florida, and this listed Fort Lauderdale as his birthplace.

I scanned the lines of info and tried to take it all in.

“Crap,” I said. “This is ugly.”

“No kidding,” he said. “Personal BK while he was in Hartford. Then promptly got himself right back in debt.”

I checked the dates of the major events.

“The bankruptcy matches up with the period when he and Jack were on the radio in Hartford. Must have been two years or so before they made the move to Liberty.”

“Son of a bitch is right back up to his eyeballs in debt,” he said.

I looked on the second page and saw the news it held. Tossing the sheets of paper on the table, I sat back and looked at Freddie.

“He’s getting crushed.”

“Foreclosure’s an ugly thing,” he said.

I grabbed the papers and looked again at the second page. The mortgage was in his name, along with a Jane S. Glover. I checked the birth dates. Jane was thirty-three years older than Marty. Mother Glover.

“He buys a house for his mom,” I said.

“At the top of the real estate market,” Freddie said.

“Then can’t make the payments,” I said.

“But why can’t he make the payments?” Freddie asked. “I mean, he was at Liberty when he bought the place and still is. I doubt his salary has dropped.”

I scanned the rest of the items on the reports and saw a reference to something called MG Productions Inc.

“MG Productions,” I said.

“Marty Glover Productions,” Freddie said.

“There’s an end date to it. Like a life span.”

“Out of business. Another failed production company,” he said.

“Probably.”

“Look at the bank balances and credit card info,” he said.

There was a Citibank checking account with $1,118.63 in it. A Bank of America checking account had $531.09 in it. He owed $37,641 on a Visa card. His Amex card was three months past due, with a balance of $31,634. And there was a Discover card with a balance of $17,289.

I scanned the rest of the info. His present salary was $195,000, according to this, but between his mortgage and credit card debt, the man was drowning.

“He’s got to be spending this money somewhere,” I said. “I mean, it takes effort to get this far in debt.”

“Maybe his crummy production company hammered him, or was being used for something not on this side of the law,” Freddie said.

“Or maybe someone was blackmailing him,” I said.

“Drug habit?” Freddie asked.

“Who knows? But there has to be some reason money is pouring out of him,” I said.

“Next thing you know, he’ll be facedown in the river with a note blaming Amex,” Freddie said.

I was about to pick up my coffee when Freddie’s words stopped me cold.

“Holy …” I said.

“Got to give me more than that,” he said.

“The note,” I said.