Murder: The Musical (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #5) (41 page)

She got off at the Sixty-eighth Street stop, near Hunter College and the massive, redbrick Seventh Armory, home, the sign said, of the Second Brigade, 42nd Infantry Division. The Nineteenth Precinct was on a mostly residential block. The building, one of the old stone precinct houses that can still be found here and there around the city, had been recently cleaned and renovated. The renovation was obviously done in 1991, for just under each hanging lamp on either side of the door was a plaque, 1887 on the left, and 1991 on the right.

She climbed the outer stairs wondering at the baby blue painted window and door trim. All that was missing were the quaint window boxes overflowing with pansies.

Inside, the building was colder than it was on the street. A woman with clipped white hair and a wide, makeup-free face was sitting huddled in a blue overcoat at a metal desk, a large sign-in book open in front of her. To her right was a red-and-white Coke container with a straw coming through its cover. The sign on her desk said:
All visitors must sign in.

“I have an appointment with Detective O’Melvany.”

“Name?”

“Leslie Wetzon.”

“Sign in. Down there. Turn right. Use the stairs. Elevator doesn’t work. Detectives are on two.” She was a woman of few words.

Two husky young men in sweats, carrying duffel bags, were coming down the stairs. They gave her the once-over, and she smiled. It gave her a lift, and hell, she had to admit she had a thing for cops.

The squadroom looked the same as any squadroom. Detectives at desks, on phones, standing around drinking coffee, working on reports. On the walls were cluttered bulletin boards and cardboard notices. An elderly couple, clinging to one another, were being comforted by a woman detective. The same battered old typewriters were scattered about the room. What, no computers?

O’Melvany met her halfway and brought her into his office. He was very friendly, took her coat, got her seated in one of the metal chairs with the fake leather seats, and offered her a Diet Coke, which she refused. A stack of folders and a cassette machine were on his desk. Behind the desk was a large bulletin board. A map of the precinct was pinned on it. He said, “I’d offer you coffee, but it’s really poisonous.”

She shook her head. “Was Susan murdered?”

O’Melvany turned the machine on and emptied the butt-filled ashtray into a wastebasket before replying. “Looks that way,” he told her. “She didn’t try to stop the fall. No bruises on her hands. She was dead or unconscious when she went down those stairs. Her head looked like the Crosby woman. He hit her square in front.”

“He?”

“Generally speaking.”

“Still no murder weapon?”

“A pipe maybe.”

“Or a cane?”

“Maybe.”

“Death by blunt instrument unknown.” Wetzon closed her eyes and pressed her hand over her mouth.
I can’t stand this,
she thought.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

“You don’t look it.” When she opened her eyes, he was standing over her, oddly concerned, as if he knew her better than he did. It was confusing.

“I am,” she assured him. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Are you up to giving us a statement?” He sat down on the edge of his desk, one big foot on the floor.

“Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Okay, walk me through.”

“Susan and I were supposed to have lunch Saturday, but ... she was afraid of someone. She has been since Dilla was killed. Susan thought she was going to be next.”

“Why would she think that?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. I think she knew, though. She said someone was stalking her, that someone had tried to break into her apartment. When she didn’t show up, I called the apartment and got a busy signal. I thought she was at home so I went on over.”

“How did you get in?”

“I met her housekeeper, Rhoda, downstairs with Izz, Susan’s dog. The dog recognized me, so I offered to take her up with me while Rhoda did the marketing.”

“Was the door to the apartment closed?”

“It was locked. Izz had the house key hidden in her collar. I knew that from my first visit.”

This piece of information didn’t seem to surprise him. “So you unlocked the door. Then what?”

“I don’t remember. I woke up wrapped in a quilt with the dog licking my hand and the super standing over me. I have a bump on my head, here.” She touched her forehead. “So I guess I either got hit or fell.”
Smitty, oh, Smitty.

“What did you do when you came to?”

“The super and I looked around. The place was ransacked and trashed. We found Susan on the landing. That’s it.”

“Who is Smitty?”

Had he read her mind? She gave him a hard look. “Are you trying to trip me up?”

O’Melvany grinned and rubbed his mustache. “Just checking. We found Ms. Orkin’s date book and his name was in it. We know Smitty is Mark Smith.”

“Mark Smith did not kill Susan.”

“His fingerprints were on the service door.”

“Oh, God. Eddie ... Detective O’Melvany—”

“Eddie is fine.”

“Eddie, this has nothing to do with Smitty, believe me. Who was the woman Susan had to call the police to get rid of Friday night?”

“Let’s have a look at the pictures first.” He reached behind him and picked up the folder.

“Do I have to look at Susan?”

“If you can.” He handed her the folder.

She clenched her jaw and skimmed through the photos of the murder scene. It was far worse than she remembered. The tuna nicoise lay like mortar in her stomach. She moved on to the photos of the apartment, slipping one behind the other as she went along. Wait a minute. She pulled the last one back. “What’s this?” She handed it to O’Melvany.

He glanced at the photo. “The garbage pail outside Ms. Orkin’s door.”

“Look at this.” She pointed to something near the empty pail. “It looks like a headband.”

“It is. Must have been Ms. Orkin’s.”

“A headband. Susan didn’t wear a headband. Besides, she’d just come out of the shower.” Wetzon stared at the photo. A headband. Who wore a headband that she knew? Someone did. Sunny? “The woman who came to see her Friday night. Who was it?”

O’Melvany put the photographs back in the folder, all except the last one. “Someone by the name of Edna Terrace.”

The guard on the door at the post office told her it was just six o’clock, which meant she was too late; the post office was closed. Damnation! She’d have to pick up the package tomorrow morning before work. Wetzon stood for a moment in front of the building, thinking. Across the street three men argued in Spanish over the domino game they’d set up on a folding table on the sidewalk. Didn’t Phil Terrace also fit the police profile? Maybe he and his mother were a murderous duo? Ma Terrace and son.

She walked over to Broadway. Zabar’s now had refrigerated cases offering scores of small containers of prepared foods ... just right for singles. She wandered around the store; with no appetite, nothing was tempting. The cheese counter was approachable, though. She took a number. Forty-nine. The counter above the shelves said thirty-eight. Did she want cheese? Maybe a chunk of Rocquefort, some nicoise olives and a semolina bread.

“Leslie!”

Startled, she dropped the slip with her cheese number. “Arthur! When did you get back?” Arthur Margolies, Carlos’s lover, dapper in his blue pinstripe suit and Burberry raincoat, gave her a peck on both cheeks. He was carrying a wire basket full of coffee, brie, boxes of pasta, a bottle of extra virgin olive oil.

“Last night.” He looked exhausted and had pouches under his eyes to prove it.

“How bad is it for Mark?” Wetzon demanded without preamble.

He looked around. “Bad. Do you want to get a bite of dinner? Poiret?”

“Why not?” Suddenly she didn’t feel much like being alone. She waited while he paid for his purchases. It struck her that Arthur to Carlos was a lot like Alton to Wetzon. Someone steady and reliable.

When they were settled in at a corner table at the restaurant, Wetzon said, “The police asked me to look at photos of the murder scene this afternoon.” She looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the green salad and the roast chicken, well done. And a glass of dry red.”

“Make that two,” Arthur said. “But with a glass of chardonnay here.” After the waiter left, he asked, “For what purpose?”

“To see if I could spot something they didn’t. You know, what’s-wrong- with-this-picture. And I did.” A busboy arrived with baguettes and butter. Wetzon broke off pieces of the roll and slathered them with butter.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She held up her hand, chewing, swallowing. “A headband that I’m sure did not belong to either Susan or Dilla.”

“Who then?” Arthur’s eyes found her ring. “Something new?”

“Phil Terrace’s mother wears a headband and Susan had to call the police Saturday night to get her out of the apartment.” She rolled the ring around her finger. “And yes, this is new. It’s from Alton.”

Arthur had such empathetic eyes, was such a kind man, that Wetzon was sure he could see right into her soul. “This is serious, then?”

She nodded. “Am I making the right decision, Arthur?”

“Only you know that, Leslie.”

Their drinks arrived and neither spoke again until the waiter had left.

“I feel ... I don’t know ... trapped? I keep thinking I’ll be forty on my next birthday and shouldn’t I stop playing ...?”

Arthur smiled and raised his wineglass to her.

“Go ahead and smile, Arthur. Carlos would have hooted. I feel as if I’m supposed to settle down with a solid citizen.” She touched glasses with him.

“Alton Pinkus is very much that.”

“Oh, what the hell.” Grinning at him, she took a swallow. “I’ll be a little married. Like everybody else.” She waited for the familiar tingle of the alcohol in her bloodstream. It was taking its own sweet time. “Arthur, what about the Panthere? Did Carlos tell you?”

“That Walter Greenow found his watch in Sam Meidner’s hand and slipped it to you. Carlos had given it to Smitty for a new battery.”

“Yes. How did Smitty explain that?” Their salads arrived, a mound of mixed greens with thin slices of tomato. The waiter ground fresh pepper over the mounds.

“Smitty said he’d had the battery put in, which was true, and somehow lost the watch in the theatre.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, picking at their salads. “Arthur, is it possible that Sam swiped the watch from Smitty?”

“Why would he do that?”

“Sam’s had a klepto problem for years. Carlos knows about it. Ask him. Sam could have appropriated the watch ...”

“Could be. Sam Meidner was attacked from behind. The two women got it in the face.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that we have two murderers.”

“Oh, God.” She stopped while the waiter cleared their salad plates and served the chicken, a small, crisply roasted bird surrounded by tiny vegetables. “Arthur, Smitty didn’t do it. It’s all circumstantial, right?”

He avoided her eyes. “Eat up, Leslie,” he said.

“Oh, Arthur.” A chill ran through her. “But Susan was afraid of someone. She said someone had tried to break into the apartment after Dilla was murdered. She wouldn’t have been afraid of Smitty.”

“Let me tell you about the show.” Arthur patted her hand. “Our Carlos has exceeded himself. The numbers are a joy, truly unique. I think he’s well on his way to directing on his own now.” There was immense pride and love emanating from him as he spoke about Carlos. Carlos was so lucky to have him.

“He always said he was happy as a clam as a choreographer without the responsibility of pulling a whole show together on his own.”

“Well, we all grow up, don’t we?”

“I guess we do. Some of us kicking and screaming all the way. Arthur, may I talk to you as my lawyer?”

“Of course.”

“A year ago, after Brian Middleton was murdered, I found some brokerage statements that indicated Richard Hartmann was laundering money. Brian had been Hartmann’s FC—financial consultant. Isn’t it a crock? The firms think
stockbroker
sounds crass so they change the name to
financial consultant
to change public perception.”

Arthur set his fork down and took a sip of wine. “Go on.”

“I warned Smith not to get involved with Hartmann, but she didn’t listen to me—she never does—and she told him—”

“About the statements?” His calm demeanor was shaken.

She nodded. “Hartmann threatened me—”

“Oh, Leslie—”

“Smith is fragile—Don’t look at me like that, Arthur. Take my word for it, she is. She was into a major affair with Hartmann. I thought if I told the authorities, she would go to pieces. And I have to admit, he frightened me.”

“You should be frightened. He’s no one to play cat-and-mouse with. What did you do with the material?”

“It’s in my safe deposit box in an envelope with a letter detailing what I found. I marked the envelope: to be delivered to the attorney general in the event of my death.” A tiny bell went off in her head.
Safe deposit box.

“... for me to deal with.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I lost you. Are you saying you’ll help me?” Hadn’t Poppy Hornberg said something about a safe deposit box?

“Yes. Leslie, I want you to get that envelope to me as soon as possible.”

“There’s an A.D.A. I met who prosecuted the Middleton case. Her name is Marissa Peiser. She’s really terrific. Maybe you can get it to her.”

“He’s a dangerous man.” He didn’t have to tell her whom he was talking about.

“I know. He threatened me again last week in Boston.” The waiter was hovering. “Just decaf please, black.”

“Regular,” Arthur said.

“I’m getting my life in order, and I don’t want this hanging over me anymore.”

“I can send a messenger for it tomorrow.”

“To the office. I’ll stop at the bank on my way in.”

When they came out of the restaurant, the night was a gemstone. Clear, cool, dry. The sky was a deep midnight blue cavern. Lights from the restaurants and buildings up and down Columbus gave the street a bustling, open- twenty-four-hours look. A riot of jungle sounds complete with chirping erupted from a small white van parked too close to the corner. Some new kind of car alarm.