Seven Ways to Die (18 page)

“His father was killed when he was a child. His mother lived in California and died years ago. He had no family, except a sister who also died a few years ago.”

“How’d she die?”

There was an imperceptible pause before he answered. “A tragic accident,” he said. He took a sip of his old fashioned. “So, tell me what really happened to Raymond.”

“He was killed in his library. It wasn’t robbery. And we feel certain he knew his killer.”

“That’s it, that’s all?”

“It’s a case in progress, sir. I’m not at liberty to say anymore. I need to talk to you about Handley. Everything you know.” Bergman took out his notebook and pen.

Nevins leaned back and shook his head slowly as he stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, how many days do you have, detective? Or weeks, I should say. I’ve known this man since he was a sophomore at Princeton. We have recruiters at all the Ivy League schools, all the major firms do. He was called to my attention the day he entered college. I had his dossier from the day he was born. I monitored him through his first year and then I mentored him, groomed him, took him on the floor of the Exchange for the first time, saw his eyes light up watching the big board. He had it all. The fire in his belly, the instinct for the edge, the risk-taking, the focus, the intelligence, he was a natural for the game.”

“And a future son-in-law for Victor Stembler?”

“Of course. That was part of the package.”

“Did he ever fire anybody or damage someone’s career?”

“Not without cause. Raymond couldn’t stand incompetence. But he never did anything with rancor. He let them down softly. Others I know are not that kind.”

“But he liked to win.” It was a question framed as a sentence.

“Of course, whatever the enterprise. If you played racquetball with Raymond you would expect to come away with bruises. But it wasn’t personal. He was a ferocious competitor. Losing was never an option.”

“How about women?”

“His one flaw. He was born with the power gene that validates sex. But to my knowledge, he never conned a woman in his life. He always made it clear up front that it was for the joy of the moment. There were only two viable relationships in his life: the Stembler Company and Linda Stembler. So how exactly did he die, Inspector Bergman?”

“I’m sorry, sir, to have to tell you…His throat was cut.”

Nevins took it like a physical blow. But he took a deep breath and recovered. “I don’t mean to be rude, son, but if our talk is going to continue, put away your notebook. From here on, this conversation is
quid pro quo.
You ask and I’ll ask. And I promise you, I can keep a secret.” He tapped his forehead. “There are enough secrets in this brain to send half the people on Wall Street up the river.”

Bergman thought for a moment and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see how it goes.”

He put the notebook in his inside breast pocket and clicked off his tape recorder mike at the same time. “Before we start,” Bergman said to Nevins, “let me ask you one thing. Is there an outside chance that maybe, just maybe, Raymond Handley may have experimented sexually with men?”

“That sounds a bit homophobic.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. At this point we’re not sure whether the killer is a male or female.”

Nevins frowned and looked down for a moment. When he looked back he was staring past Bergman, his eyes fixed on some vague spot in a dark corner of the room.

“The first time I ever saw Raymond was in one of those old school restaurants,” he mused. “You know, all teakwood and dark colors. Framed in the sunlight streaming through the window, he looked like a cutout. A beautiful young man in a boat neck sweater, hair slightly mussed. Not a blemish on his skin. Confident brown eyes. For me, it’s an image frozen in time, like a black and white photograph.”

He stopped, drawn back to the present, and looked back at Bergman.

“He was a sophomore at Princeton. We chit-chatted for a while and sometime during lunch I leaned across the table and said, ‘Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?’ And Ray looked at me, laughed, and said, ’Well, Mister Nevins, no man ever has.’ So, it was on the table and off, just like that. He knew I was gay. I knew he wasn’t. I wasn’t serious, of course. It was what we call in the business a ‘clarification question.’ No, Inspector, Raymond loved the ladies. He also knew if he got involved with one, it could jeopardize his career at the firm. So, in college, and ever since, he was a one night stand man.”

“Do any of these names mean anything to you? Trapeze Lady? Tit for Twat? The Sex Circus?”

“Look, New York is full of sex clubs,” Nevins said with a dismissive wave of his arm, “Trapeze Lady performed at the Sex Circus. But it got too public and vice shut it down. Same with the Tit for Twat. Ray went to them once or twice until I warned him off.”

“Does the Staten Island Fairy ring a bell?”

Nevins face drained and became pasty. He was obviously shocked.

“Christ, where did you hear that?”

He got up slowly, his shoulders sagging wearily. He looked at Bergman’s untouched drink, and went back to the bar to fix himself another one.

He tinkered with the fixings and, without looking up said, “Only two people ever heard of the Staten Island Fairy. It was a joke.”

“A joke?”

“That’s right. I have a jousting sense of humor. Once the gay thing was out of the way I said to Ray, ‘From today forth I’m going to teach you the way we do business at Stembler.’ And I laughed and said, ‘The Staten Island Fairy and the Princeton Hunk are going to be partners.’ It put him at ease and he laughed and we shook on it. I lived on Staten Island at the time.”     

Bergman, a very cool character under the most extreme circumstances, could not conceal his surprise. Nevins returned to the table, his face etched with sadness and dropped with a sigh into his chair, his face troubled.

“An inside joke, Inspector Bergman, between the two of us. It was never said in polite society and I’m sure he never mentioned it to anyone else. Where in heaven’s name did you hear that?”

Bergman’s mind nimbly sought an appropriate answer. “It came up in one of the briefings along with those other names,” he said. “Your name was never mentioned. Maybe Handley jotted it down somewhere, you know, on a list of calls to make or something.”

Nevins paused for a moment then relaxed, accepting the explanation. His sudden change in composure was evanescent.

“
Quid pro quo
time,” he said.

“One more thing. It relates directly to the homicide.”

“I hope so. We made a deal.”

“Does the Yellow Door sound familiar?”

Nevins expression changed slightly. He leaned forward in his chair and took a swig from his glass.

“Your turn,” he said firmly.

“Okay. I will depend on you to keep what I’m about to tell you in complete confidence.”

“That was understood,” he nodded.

“He was your friend, sir. You’re going to find the details odious at the very least.”

“I’m prepared for that. Will it bother you if I smoke?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank God.” He took out a pack of unfiltered Camels, tamping the end of a cigarette on the table before lighting it. He drew deeply, leaned back with his eyes closed and exhaled toward the ceiling.

As Bergman described the scene, Nevins leaned forward, took a deep drink, lit one cigarette off the other and his expression became increasingly horrified.

“Oh. Oh, my dear God,” Nevins cried. He was shaking all over. The ash on his cigarette fluttered to the floor. Bergman took it from his hand, crushed it out in an ashtray. “I may be sick to my stomach,” Nevins croaked feebly.

“Maybe it would help to lie down on the sofa.”

“No. I’ll be alright in a minute.” He paused and then added, “How do you do it? Seeing things like that all the time?”

“It goes with the territory. I don’t know how I’d handle it if the victim were a friend.”

Nevins sat up and wiped his face with the wet towel. Tears were streaming down his face which sagged with sorrow.

“Why? Why would anyone do such an abominable thing to Raymond? How could someone hate him that much?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Are there suspects? Do you have any ideas?”

“I was hoping you could help us with that.”

“I can’t imagine Ray being involved in anything that tawdry. Perhaps he was victimized, kidnapped or forced into it.”

“I ran the crime scene with my boss, Mister Nevins. He’s the best there is. I can assure you, Handley knew what he was getting into. Our best guess is that he thought it was a game but whoever killed him went there with murder in mind.”

“Nobody I know who knew him well could possibly be capable of such a thing. He was a lovely young man. He was tough but he never intentionally hurt anyone.”

“
Quid pro quo.
Tell me about the Yellow Door.”

“I will, just please tell me how it figures into this.”

“He stopped there on his way home from Cincinnati. Met a woman in one of its private rooms. She got there before him, he arrived about midnight, she left a few minutes later. He waited about fifteen minutes and left the back way. He got home in a cab about one. We are certain that a single person committed the crime. That person got there before Raymond. That person had his keys and set up the scene. That person planned to kill him and robbery was not a factor.”

“Any description of the woman?”

“Not much. Red designer dress, about five-five, five six, depending on the shoes. She was wearing a Dracula mask, the kind that goes down to the shoulders. She didn’t take a cab to Handley’s place, if she went there at all.”

“You think it could have been someone else? I mean, it sounds like…”

“The Yellow Door, Mister Nevins.”

“Please, just help me understand this. Was he tortured? Was he in great pain? Was there a struggle?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. At this point anybody who knew him is suspect.”

“Does that include Edgar and me?”

“You’re sixty-one, born in Haddonfield, N.J. Your dad was a veep at RCA. You’re a graduate of Harvard Law with an MB from the Wharton School. You’re Victor Stembler’s closest confidant, been with the firm for thirty-eight years, a senior partner and member of the Board with an enormous salary and all the accoutrements that go with it.”

“Huh,” said Nevins, sardonically. “You’re certainly thorough. What’s my shoe size?”

“Eleven C, you wear a forty long and your shirt size is sixteen/thirty-five. That was easy, I’m sitting here looking at you.”

Nevins smiled and nodded his head.

“Your point, Inspector,” he said ruefully. “Time to talk about the Yellow Door.”

21

The wolves started to howl at dusk. Charley heard them first. Cody saw his ears go up. The big white dog sat up and his ears turned like a radio antenna searching for a signal. He whined deep in his throat, barely audible.

“It’s okay,” Cody said and Charley looked at him and settled back down in the corner of the office but his ears were still tuned to the sound.

Out in the office Hue was taping the beginning of Bergman’s interview with Nevins.

Then she called. He recognized the number when it appeared on the caller I.D. on his private line. Cody picked up the receiver.

“This is Cody,” he said.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s Amelie Cluett. Remember me?”

“Of course.”

“I think I may have thought of something. Could you stop by?”

“Now?”

“I’m sorry. I know you must be busy…” There was a sense of urgency in her tone.

He was thinking while she spoke. The Wildlife Center was only a few blocks away from her.

In the background he could hear Bergman’s conversation with Nevins on the loudspeaker.

“That’s alright,” he said. “I was just heading up that way. I’ll swing by in a few minutes.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

He grabbed his leather jacket and Charley started to get up.

“Stay, Charley, I’ll be back soon,” he said and the dog looked at him for a moment and whined again and lay back down.

As he walked out of his office he heard the end of Bergman’s conversation.

“His recorder just went dead,” Hue said.

“You heard, Nevins,” Cody said to him, “He said to put away the notebook. Erase what you taped so far.”

“Good call, Cody,” Kate Winters said and smiled.

Cody slipped his leather jacket on.

“Where you headed?” Si asked.

“Seventy-third Street,” Cody said. “The Cluett woman just called me.”

“She didn’t mention the Yellow Door in your Q and A.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You going on tape?’ Hue asked as Cody headed for the door.

“Monitor me and see,” Cody said as he headed for the elevator to the garage. As he left he looked at the clock on the big board.

11:57.

Below it was the real time and date. It was 6:59 p.m., 10/26/08 and they were almost twelve hours into the case and were without any hard evidence except the corpse and had no suspects except an elusive woman in a red dress and a Dracula mask. Cody was getting edgy, the crew could tell.

He checked out one of the town cars and headed to Bowery, took a left to Third and a right to 73
^rd
.

He parked in the alley next to the Handley brownstone. Then he heard the wolf again. It was a high-pitched, modulated howl, a lonely sound tinged with sadness. He pressed the mike button on the gear shift.

“Hue?” Cody said.

“It’s Si. Hue’s grabbing dinner.”

“Have we heard anything from Cal?”

“Not yet.”

“Who’s running recon?”

“Jonée on the south side, Butch on the north. Hue’ll relieve Butch at eleven, Wow will take the south. I’ll run the board here. At six a.m. it’ll be Frank and Annie, south, Cal and Kate on the north, and Hue’ll be back on the board.”

“Anybody planning to sleep?”

“We’ll all be cat-napping here until we get back to normal.”

“That’ll be the day,” Cody said and chuckled. “That’s a good plan, Si. Thanks.”