Fare Play (11 page)

Perlmutter cleared his throat. “Professionals don't make that kind of mistake. The hitter followed him onto a crowded bus, shot him, and got off before anyone knew what had happened. Cool and sure. There was no mistake.”

“Mr. Novak,” Marian said, “why did a retired toymaker need a secretary? What did you do for him, exactly?”

“Not so much as before,” Novak said. “Oliver still maintained an interest in the business, although he was no longer involved in the day-to-day running of it. Mostly what I've been doing the last couple of years is tending to his personal affairs—correspondence, taxes, bill-paying. That's what I've always done.”

“You handled his personal correspondence? Anything out of the ordinary there lately?”

Novak slowly shook his head. “There wasn't much of it. Primarily Oliver liked to keep in touch with business contacts he'd made over the years.”

“Was he in touch with anyone in Texas?”

The secretary looked surprised. “No, no one. Why do you ask that?”

“He was from Texas, wasn't he?”

“Yes, but he'd cut all ties with that early life—long before I came to work for him.”

“And you saw
all
his correspondence?”

“Every piece. When the mail was delivered, I saw it before he did. I threw out the advertisements and solicitation letters, that sort of thing, and passed on to him only those letters I knew he'd be interested in seeing.”

So Novak had screened Knowles's mail. Perhaps keeping something from him? “No threatening letters?”

He gave her the ghost of a smile. “No, Lieutenant.”

Marian sat back in her chair; Perlmutter picked up his cue and asked, “You've been in Florida?”

“Attending a funeral,” Novak said. “My uncle's. He'd raised me … my parents were killed in a traffic accident when I was ten. I'd planned to stay on another few days until Mrs. R called and told me Oliver had been shot.”

All the time he was talking, Marian was studying him. He was very composed for someone who'd just lost two older men to whom he'd been close. As if reading her mind, Perlmutter asked, “What are you going to do now?”

“I haven't decided yet. Oliver left me an annuity, I know. But I've had a standing offer for years from one of Oliver's associates to come work for him. They used to joke about it—Oliver's leaving me to the associate in his will, that sort of thing.”

“Who is this associate?” Marian wanted to know.

“Oliver's lawyer. His name is Elmore Zook.”

All in the family
, Marian thought. She listened as Perlmutter went on probing, trying to find some hint of a reason anyone would want Knowles dead. But Novak had nothing at all to tell them.

Abruptly, she asked, “What do you think of David Unger?”

“A good man,” Novak answered without hesitation. “Oliver trusted him.” He said the last as if that were the unquestioned standard by which all people were to be judged.

Soon after that, Mrs. R brought Novak a cup of tea. Marian thanked them for their help, which was perhaps more than they realized; she and Perlmutter left.

Perlmutter was driving. “Whaddaya think, Lieutenant?”

“I think Oliver Knowles was a genius at surrounding himself with people on whose loyalty he could rely. Look at the way the housekeeper automatically sided with him in his quarrel with his wife.”

“Huh. She knew which side her bread was buttered on.”

“It's more than that.” Marian thought back. “She called Mrs. Knowles vindictive. Too bad the lady isn't still with us to tell her side of the story. Perlmutter, tomorrow I want you to go see Austin Knowles. Find out what the trouble was between his parents.”

He looked surprised. “You think that's pertinent?”

“Probably not. But so far the late Mrs. Knowles is the only one we've come across who didn't think the late Mr. Knowles was a saint.”

When they were back in the stationhouse, Marian went looking for Captain Murtaugh. She found him leaning against the wall by the coffee machine, staring dourly at the brown liquid in the paper cup he was holding.

“Why do they call this coffee?” he greeted her glumly. “It doesn't even remotely resemble the real stuff.”

“The hot chocolate's not bad,” she said.

“But it doesn't have caffeine,” the captain objected. He took a swallow and made a face. “The Knowles case? Do you have a suspect?”

“A potential. I'm going to talk to him tomorrow. David Unger, the manager and soon-to-be majority stockholder of O.K. Toys. He's the only one who will be noticeably better off because of Knowles's death, but we still have no link between him and the shooter. Could we get a DA's accountant to go over the company books?”

Murtaugh nodded once. “I'll get the warrant. Anything else?”

“Tell him to look for recent transactions. Lists of vendors and customers for the past year.”

The captain suddenly looked interested. “Not really a toy business?”

“O'Toole thinks there's something fishy there. Should be easy to prove, one way or the other.”

“What are you going to do? Call the vendors and verify recorded orders?”

“That's the idea. We shouldn't have to call them all.”

Murtaugh looked at her, hard. “Gut response, Larch. What do you think was going on?”

She took a breath. “I think Oliver Knowles went to extraordinary lengths to insulate himself. He built up a whole network of bought-and-paid-for loyalty which turned out to be extraordinarily reliable. The man was a shrewd judge of people, Captain. But he must have made one mistake, one lapse in judgement. And that one mistake cost him his life.”

“Someone close to him, then? You've ruled out business competitors?”

“He was out of business. Retired. A competitor would have gone after him when he was still a player.”

The captain nodded. “Let me know what you learn about Unger.”

Marian said she would and turned to go—and then turned back. “Captain, you remember the wedding I'm going to be in?”

His face broke into a grin. “Best man.”

“I'm following your advice. Tonight I'm meeting the bride's mother.”

“She'll fill you in, count on it. Have fun.”

“Fun?” She shuddered. “I'm dreading it.”

Marian left him still leaning by the coffee machine. As she passed Dowd's desk, he said without looking up: “Package on your desk. Messenger brought it.”

“Thanks, Dowd.”

It was an ordinary mailing bag. She found the tab on the back and ripped the bag open.

Inside was a set of keys to Holland's apartment.

16

“The thing to remember,” Ivan Malecki said, “is always to agree with her. The lady has very pronounced opinions. Got that?”

“Mm,” said Marian.

“I mean about everything, Marian. If she tells you the world is flat, you nod knowingly and say you'd always suspected that was true.”

“How does she feel about your asking me to be your best man?”

Ivan laughed out loud. “First time I've ever seen her not know what to think. When I told her my former partner was going to be my best man, she was pleased—that demonstrated loyalty on my part, ya see. But when I said my former partner is a woman, she hit the ceiling. It was outrageous, she never heard of such a thing, was I trying to insult her daughter, et goddam cetera.” He laughed again. “
Then
I told her you were a police lieutenant—and she just stood there with her mouth working, not knowing what to say. God, I loved it.”

“Oh boy.”

“So she's torn between your rank and your, er, womanness. Just come on like an authority figure and you'll be okay.”

Marian groaned.

Ivan pulled up to the curb. “Here we are.” They were in a section of Queens that Marian didn't know, a neighborhood of free-standing houses squeezed close together on narrow lots. The Yelincic house—their destination—had the porch light on. They were expected.

Claire Yelincic opened the door, a pretty blond past the flush of girlhood but with an open smile and straight gaze that had made Marian like her from the first time they met. Claire gave Ivan a quick kiss and turned to Marian. “She'll swoop in on you like a hawk, Marian—brace yourself.”

“Hanh,” Marian said weakly.

“Believe it or not, she's a little nervous about meeting you. And I apologize in advance for all the personal questions she'll ask.”

“Claire! You don't have to do that.”

Ivan and Claire were nodding in unison. “Yes, she does,” the former said.

“Come on in,” Claire told them.

They stepped into a hallway that ran straight back, doorways to the right and left and a stairway about halfway down the hall. Claire no longer lived with her parents, but this was the house she'd grown up in. She hung up Marian's and Ivan's coats and led them through the doorway to the left into the living room.

Marian had built up a picture in her mind of a stout, matronly woman in a flowered dress. But Mrs. Yelincic was thin and wiry and wore a navy blue polyester pantsuit. She stood in front of an artificial fireplace with her hands folded neatly at her waist, like a contralto in the church choir waiting for her solo. Marian caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a gray, featureless man rising from a rocking chair, a newspaper in one hand.

Claire did the honors, introducing her as Lieutenant Larch, no first name. Mrs. Yelincic advanced to meet her, one claw extended; Marian gave both parents what she hoped was an authoritative handshake. “We are honored to meet you, Lieutenant,” Mrs. Yelincic said in a voice like razor blades. Mr. Yelincic smiled and nodded.

Marian summoned her you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent voice and said, “It's very gracious of you to help me out, Mrs. Yelincic. I want to make sure that everything is done right.”

“Yes, I certainly hope so.” Mrs. Yelincic smiled an artificial smile. “But first, let's go into the dining room. We waited to have dessert with you.”

“Thank you, Ivan and I stopped for a bite on the way over …” Behind his future mother-in-law, Ivan was vigorously nodding his head. “… but we didn't have dessert,” Marian finished with an attempt at enthusiasm.

“Today I have baked a torte,” Mrs. Yelincic confided. “You must tell me what you think.”

So they were to go through an eating ritual first, before they could get down to business. They all trooped across the hall to the dining room, where Marian sat down to her second dessert of the evening. She didn't have to lie when she told their hostess the torte was delicious.

“I don't put raisins or any kind of fruit in the thin layers,” Mrs. Yelincic announced. “That's wrong. I don't care how many recipes call for dried dates or figs or anything else. Fruit does not belong in a torte. Nuts, yes. But no fruit.”

Ivan and Claire quickly agreed; Marian followed suit. Mr. Yelincic nodded and smiled.

“Do you cook, Lieutenant?” Razor-blades voice, trying to sound innocent.

Marian saw the trap. “I'm a weekend-only cook now, I'm afraid. That's one of the things I've hated having to give up. I wish I still had the time to spend in the kitchen that real cooking demands. Don't you just hate those quickie meals tossed together at the last minute?”

Mrs. Yelincic heartily agreed. “Push something in the microwave, eat five minutes later—that's not cooking.” Ivan was trying not to laugh.

Claire said, “Mama, you work all day, sometimes you're just too tired to cook when you get home.”

“Cook on weekends. Freeze. Then you have a good dinner waiting for you every night.”

“Oh, Mama.” Claire glanced at Ivan mischievously. “I suppose we could spend our weekends cooking.” Ivan put on an angelic look.

But Marian had passed the first test; time for the second. “But Lieutenant,” Razor Blades went on, “doesn't it bother you, working with all those men?”

Marian pretended to think it over. “I have two women detectives working under me—all the rest are men. But you know, I never stop to think whether I'm giving instructions to a man or a woman. I work with professionals. That's all that matters.” Stressing her authority—
working under me
and
giving instructions
.

“But don't you get embarrassed?” the woman persisted. “Changing clothes in the same locker room!” She was clearly scandalized.

“Oh, we have separate locker rooms. That's never been an issue.”

Mrs. Yelincic looked unbelieving. “I heard all the police changed and showered together.”

Oh dear
. “Why don't you come to Midtown South for a visit someday? I'll show you the women's locker room. It's not pretty, but it is off-limits to the men.” It was, in fact, an ordinary restroom to which lockers had been added.

But Mrs. Yelincic wasn't satisfied. “And these men, they don't mind taking orders from a woman?”

Sergeant Campos immediately sprang to mind. “I'm sure some of them do,” Marian said. “But we have regulations now—most police departments do anymore. Sexist and racist talk and behavior simply are not tolerated.”

Claire pitched in. “Things have changed, Mama.”

“And you're telling me all these men obey these regulations?” Mrs. Yelincic made a sound of disbelief. “I know men, and they like to have their own way.”

Mr. Yelincic smiled and nodded.

Ivan tried to help. “Hey, I'm a man and I worked with Mar—Lieutenant Larch for years. No problem.”

“But she was not your superior then,” Razor Blades grated.

Marian patted her mouth with a napkin. “Mrs. Yelincic, if anyone gives me a hard time, I have the authority to take disciplinary action. I can send the offender for counseling, or I can suspend him up to three days without pay. If the unacceptable behavior persists, I can file charges against him and request a hearing. Our regulations have teeth—they're not just a set of guidelines. Do you know how many times I've had to take disciplinary action since I was promoted to lieutenant?” Almost a month now.