The Morning Show Murders (1) (21 page)

"As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted," she said, "I'm Maureen Bettenhaus. I'm in the Manhattan phone directory under the name Moe Betta. In case you might want to call me sometime."

With that, she did an about-face and walked away. Slowly.

That woman can't be involved with Felix
, I told myself. God wouldn't be that cruel.

But who's to say God doesn't have his playful moments?

Jolie and Gabe were waiting for me by the front door. I told them I wouldn't be going back to the tower with them in the van. Mighty Joe was picking me up for the trip to see Mr. Turducken. In fact, I could see him in the dirtmobile, parked in front of the museum.

Instead of exiting, I returned to the main exhibition showroom, where I found Cathcart and Whirley going over the plans for opening night. "Where are the dressing rooms the models are using?" I asked.

"I'll show you," Whirley said, heading toward an exit that led to the rear of the museum. "What did you think of the Owl?" he asked.

"Which one was that, exactly?"

"Lavender bodysuit. Owl face, big eyes. Beak. A rather obscure hero from
Crackerjack Funnies
in the 1940s," he said. "But some of his adventures were written by ... wait for it ... Jerry Siegel."

When I didn't fall down on the floor, writhing, he said, "Jerry Siegel? Co-creator of Superman?"

"Oh,
that
Jerry Siegel," I said.

"Yes. We're quite proud of bringing that little-known fact to light. Too bad you didn't see the Owl."

"See the Owl." It sounded like a euphemism for some sort of indecent behavior.

Two portable dressing rooms--black curtains on metal tube frames--had been hastily constructed in the museum's shipping area. I wasn't interested in them. It was the wardrobe mistress I wanted to talk to.

It turned out to be a wardrobe mister. Simon ("just Simon, surnames are superfluous") informed me that "the costumes, once they had been fitted and adjusted, were either put on hangers or, in the case of tiny little nothings, wrapped in tissue and placed in cardboard boxes, all of it labeled, of course."

"And where were the hangers and boxes kept overnight?"

"In Wardrobe."

"Locked up?" I asked.

"Not well enough, evidently," Whirley said.

"I think the costume was simply misplaced, though frankly I don't see how," Simon said.

"What costume?" I asked.

"The Cheetah," Whirley said. "From
Suspense Stories
, 1965, Charlton Comics. Very, very sexy lady. Costume was skintight, yellow with black spots, a sort of bookend to Tigra. Marius and I were so looking forward to seeing both of them together. Though I must say Tigra was pretty impressive on her own."

"Who had access to the costumes?" I asked Simon.

"There weren't that many who knew about them. People from
Wake Up!
, mainly."

"Who specifically?"

"The show's producer, who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that I would have killed for. Some woman with a skunk-tail streak in her hair. But you know, anybody could have just walked in."

We thanked Simon for his information and made our way to the front of the museum.

As we crossed the main hall, Cathcart called out, "Did you see her, Chef Blessing?"

"Her?"

"Rita," he said. "Rita Margolis. She was here just a few minutes ago. I mentioned you'd asked about her." He looked around the large exhibition hall. "I don't see her now. She's probably off on some errand. Rita never seems to stand still."

"Like a hummingbird," I said.

I thanked the two curators again for hosting us and was heading away when Cathcart called out, "Rita will be back shortly. Would you like me to convey a message?"

I told him not to bother. I'd probably be running into Rita myself before too long. Actually, I couldn't imagine anything I'd have to say to Rita or she to me that would be of any consequence. Not exactly a perceptive forecast, as it turned out.

"What's that perfume?" I asked Joe when I stepped into the Volvo.

"I don't know," he said, clearly upset. "I left for just a minute to--you know--walk the dog. Come back. Stinko. Stinko."

"It's almost toxic," I said.

"Be okay with window open, once we get going," he said.

"Do we have to use the Tunnel?" I asked him.

"For you to get to the address in Fairview by ten," he said. "We take bridge, far out of our way, maybe make it by eleven. Another hour of stinko."

"Okay," I said.

"This guy you go see, he put chicken inside duck?"

"And both of them inside a turkey," I said.

Joe started giggling. He didn't do it very often, but it was kind of infectious.

We both were still grinning as he took the right turn at Eighth Avenue, then a left on West Thirty-ninth Street. But as we followed a huge beer truck into the Lincoln Tunnel, the grin left my face.

In the moments before we lost daylight, I decided to just close my eyes until we could see the slate-gray skies of Weehawken. With the windows open, the noise was intense. The air was close. I felt the
pressure, real or imagined, from being underwater and wondered how long it would be--and I was sure of the inevitability of it happening--before the tunnel would crack and cave in.

I was entertaining myself with that thought, my eyes squeezed shut, when Joe said, "Billy, anybody else from show going to see this turkey man?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"Hummer following us. Been there from the museum."

I opened my eyes to a nightmare of car headlights reflecting off the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. Horns blaring. Big rigs zooming. Angry traffic.

I twisted in my seat to look through the rear window. More headlights. But I saw the vehicle Joe had mentioned. A bloodred Hummer about two car lengths behind us. It was difficult to see into the Hummer, but I could make out the image of a big man behind the wheel and at least one figure on the rear seat.

I told Joe I saw nothing to cause any alarm.

It was frightening enough just being in the tunnel. The whole tube full of cars seemed to be traveling at warp speed, but maybe the noise had something to do with that.

I noticed a slip of paper on the rubber mat near my feet--unusual, because Joe kept the interior spotless. I picked it up, knowing it would contain another cat sketch. In this one, the stick-figure cat was accompanied by a little friend, a skunk, radiating squiggly lines that cartoonists use to indicate odor.

"He coming up fast," Joe said.

As point of proof, the Volvo was suddenly bumped from behind. I was jerked forward as far as the seat belt allowed. If the bump had been any harder, the airbags might have gone off.

Joe was yelling in Vietnamese. I assume he was cursing the guy in the Hummer.

I looked back. The big vehicle had returned to its previous position. Then, with absolutely no warning, it leaped into a small space in the left lane, causing the suddenly alert driver of a Mercedes sedan to risk a pileup by tapping his brakes.

The Hummer was coming up on our left. Its side windows were dark-tinted.

Joe gunned the Volvo, but thanks to the big rig in front of us, there was no place for him to go.

When the Hummer was side by side with us, its right rear window lowered. Then the bad freakiness began and I stopped worrying about being in a tunnel under the Hudson.

A full-size cheetah glared at us from the rear seat of the Hummer. Not a cheetah, of course. Cheetahs don't ride in Hummers. They don't wear gloves. They don't point space guns out of car windows.

The cheetah aimed its weird-looking gun at Joe. I suddenly realized the significance of the cheap perfume and the cat drawing.

"Shut your win--" I began.

Too late.

The back of Joe's head seemed to erupt in red, and he was thrown toward me. He continued screaming as the Volvo veered to the left and kissed the side of the Hummer with a grinding screech, the cheetah leaping back from the window. I reached over and grabbed the wheel, bringing us back into the right lane.

Joe pushed me away and regained control of the wheel. "I got it, Billy," he said.

"You okay? The blood ..."

"Head hurt like hell," he said. "No blood. Paint."

Paint?

"Got some in left eye. Right eye okay."

The Hummer was ahead of us now. The cheetah shot at us again. This time the Volvo's windshield went red, cutting off the view from even Joe's good eye.

He popped his seat belt and, keeping his right foot on the gas, stuck his head out of his window, screaming as he steered us forward.

The Hummer swerved again, this time into our lane, ahead of the big rig.

Joe maintained his awkward position until we emerged from the tunnel and he was able to pull over to the far left, past the safety cones, into a non-traffic area underneath a giant American flag that was occupied by the vehicles of the tunnel crews.

One of the crewmen was kind enough to provide us with solvent and a rag to clean most of the paint off the windshield, and rubbing alcohol to clean Joe's face. He carried his own bottle of water that he used to wash out his eye. But my diminutive driver remained in despair over the damage done to the side of the car and the dent in the rear bumper. He stared at the long scratches and gouges. Then he ran his hand over them tenderly, as if soothing a wounded animal.

"I see that Hummer again," he said, "I destroy it."

"You see that Hummer again, it'll be in a police impound yard," I said. "It's bound to have been stolen."

"Then I destroy woman in catsuit."

"You sure it was a woman?" I asked.

"You not know difference?" he said. "I explain. Women got these, but much bigger." Joe was holding his hands out in front of him. "Even Mrs. Joe, though not that much bigger."

"It wasn't just a catsuit," I told him. "It was a Cheetah costume, stolen from the Glass Tower."

"Then you know who woman is?"

"Not a clue," I said.

"Car a mess," he said. "Interior got paint, too. Like my jacket."

I noticed splotches of red on my jacket, too.

"You still want to see turkey man?" Joe asked.

I wasn't that wild about it to begin with. "No way," I said. "Get me back to Manhattan as soon as you can, even if we have to take the Tunnel."

"Then we need to get car repaired," he said.

"Well, it won't be a total loss. They'll have to wash it, too."

I let Kiki handle the whole car-repair thing.

While she made the calls and the arrangements, I slumped on the only soft chair in my office, brooding as I dabbed at the red spots on my jacket with lighter fluid. That's where Arnie found me.

"Your presence is requested in Gretchen's office," he said.

"What's up?" I asked, getting to my feet and following him through the door.

"Something about a car accident."

"How'd she find out about it?"

"She passed your car on the way back from lunch," Arnie said, leading me to the bank of elevators.

"It's not that big a deal," I said.

"Gretchen said the car looked like crap," he said.

"What's the big deal? It always looks like crap," I said.

Gretchen was at her desk, a coffee mug at her elbow and a concerned look clouding her handsome face.

"Sit down, Billy," she said. "I want to hear what happened."

During my brooding, I'd more or less decided that as Henry Julian
and Cassandra and, especially, Felix had been telling me, it was not in my best interest to continue to annoy the killer. Yes, mine was still the only name on Detective Solomon's suspect list. But that was something I could live with, at least until the cop realized the error of his ways or Rudy Gallagher's murder became an official cold case.

So I told Gretchen that we got sideswiped in the Tunnel. "The other car got away. End of story."

"What about the costumed figure shooting paintballs at you?"

"How in God's name do you know about that? Don't tell me Joe--?"

"Joe ... tell me
anything?
Of course not. Billy, this is the era of information. Nothing goes unreported."

She spun her desk monitor around. There was a grainy but clear-enough photo of the Volvo being fired upon by the Cheetah in the Hummer.

"Damn," I said. "I wouldn't have thought there'd been enough light."

"Your car has been identified by the plate," she said, "and there has been speculation on two of the gossip sites that the cat person is a fan of Rudy's, attempting to avenge him."

"Did I hear you say 'cat person'?" Trina Lomax asked from the doorway.

"Trina, come in," Gretchen said. "I heard there was some problem at your apartment this morning? Everything okay?"

"False alarm," Trina said, taking a chair. "What's this about a cat person?"

Gretchen showed her the photo.

"Fascinating," Trina said. She turned toward me, her blue eyes shining with delight. "I definitely underestimated you, Billy. Playing paintball in the Lincoln Tunnel with a cat. Hard-core."

"I wasn't playing anything," I said. "Gretchen, has anybody checked the plate on the Hummer?"

"Owned by a Scarsdale dermatologist," she said. "He claims it was stolen sometime during the night."

"A cat shooting at you," Trina said. "Ring any bells, Billy?"

I gave her my best blank look.

"You know something about this, Trina?" Gretchen asked.

"I know about a very dangerous man who calls himself Felix the Cat."

Could Joe have been mistaken about the Cheetah being a female? The wardrobe guy, Simon, had said it was a woman's costume, and the cartoon character had been a woman. But Trina seemed convinced Felix was a man. Perhaps an androgynous one?

"You remember the assassination of a drug kingpin named Tumetello in Bogota four years ago?" Trina asked.

"Vaguely," Gretchen said.

"My memory is a little more vivid," Trina said. "I was working on a story about the Moleta cartel for International News and got to the crime scene early enough that the body was still warm. Tumetello wasn't what you'd call a wonderful guy, and his death eventually brought about the end of the cartel. But his killer had disemboweled him. And left a calling card of sorts on a wall beside the body. He'd cut off Tumetello's finger, dipped it in the dead man's blood, and used it to draw a stick figure of a cat on the wall beside the body, signing it 'Felix.'