Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) (17 page)

Before they rang the doorbell at the Marichal town house the next morning, Ed Razoni wanted to make his position perfectly clear.

“Dammit, Tough, this is the absolute wrong thing to do.”

“A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” Jackson said.

“This ain’t ‘do,’” Razoni said. “This is doo-doo. This is just trouble. Look, all we got to do is go through the motions, give all our stuff to those two stupid cops at the precinct, and the hell with it. We take none of the heat.”

“It’s our case,” Jackson said stubbornly. “And our break.”

“And our ass that’s going to be in the garbage can,” Razoni said. “Who’s going to tell Longworth that his kid killed the lizard? Not me. And don’t expect me to tell the captain either. Not me. Why? Last night you promised you’d sleep on it.”

“I
did
sleep on it. I decided we go ahead and pick up the girl.”

“That’s what I hate about you, Jackson. You sleep on things and you still don’t change your mind. Go ahead. Ring the goddamn bell. But this is on your head. I want you to remember that.”

“If I forget, I’m sure you’ll remind me,” Jackson said.

He rang the doorbell a long time before the door was opened by the butler.

“Yes?” he said, having obviously obliterated any memory of having seen them before.

“Move aside, Lurch,” Razoni snarled. “We’ve come to see the girl.”

“Wait right here, please.”

“We’ll wait inside,” Razoni said, and pushed his way through the door and into the foyer. Jackson followed him.

“Where is she?” Razoni asked.

“Miss Karen is, I believe, with her family. I shall see.”

“Don’t bother to announce us,” Razoni said. “We can find our own way.” To Jackson, he said, “Just follow the trail of peanut shells.”

“And the smell of wine.”

“And the cries of alley-oop,” Razoni said.

“As you wish,” the butler said.

They pulled open the double French doors. The scene was as they remembered it.

Ferenc Marichal floated back and forth above the room on a trapeze bar slung through the rings. Sitting on his shoulder as he swung was the spider monkey, wearing a red pillbox hat. Still standing in front of her canvas was Charmaine Marichal, her tight blond curls twisted under a railroad cap she wore. Mother Marichal was drinking at the table in the corner.

There was a difference.

A tall blond girl now sat on the paint-splattered sofa near her mother. Her legs were curled under her in the lotus position, her hands were folded in her lap; her eyes were closed.

“Karen,” Jackson called.

“Hey, look who’s here,” called Marichal from overhead. “Our friends from yesterday. Hi there, fellows.” He waved a hand at them insistently, trying to get them to wave back.

Razoni finally waved in a gesture that managed to combine hello, good-bye, and an anatomical impossibility even for a man in good shape.

“Karen,” Jackson repeated.

The tall blonde opened her eyes. She seemed to take a moment to focus on the two detectives, and then she looked startled. After a moment, she looked resigned.

She rose slowly. “Yes?” she said. The voice was still smooth and liquid.

“We’d like to talk to you,” Jackson said.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Here or downtown?” Razoni said.

“Nothing to say, here
or
downtown,” the girl said.

For all the attention they were attracting the two detectives might have been alone in the room with the girl. Mrs. Marichal kept painting. Mother Marichal kept drinking. Mr. Marichal and Monkey Marichal kept swinging merrily along.

“Let’s go, dear,” Jackson said.

Karen Marichal walked toward them, head down, resignedly.

Overhead, her father called out, “Hey? You all leaving so soon?”

Jackson nodded.

“Where you going?”

“We’re arresting your daughter,” Razoni growled.

“Oh, good. Things were getting so dull.”

Sonny Alcetta stomped into the office looking annoyed. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer that he kept slapping at as if it were home for an ant colony. He wore gray slacks and another white tie, and Trace thought that Detective Razoni might be nuts, but his description of Alcetta as a nickel-and-dime mob guy seemed to be right on the nickel.

Alcetta sized up Chico and gave her a big smile before turning to Trace.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Mr. Alcetta, I presume,” Trace said.

He nodded. “You?”

“I’m Devlin Tracy. This is my associate, Miss Mangini.” Trace reached under his jacket and turned on his tape recorder.

“Mangini, huh? That’s funny. You don’t look Italian.”

“Really?” Chico said. “No one ever noticed before.”

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Alcetta?” Trace asked. “Why are you slapping at your jacket?”

“Aaaah, I got wrinkled. Some guy bumps into me downstairs here and knocks me into a wall and I get all wrinkled and I bet I got all that dust from the hall all over me. Do I, lady?” He spun around so Chico could inspect his jacket.

“You look beautiful, Mr. Alcetta,” she said. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Hey. All right,” he said. He looked at Trace and said, “Where’s the other guy?”

“That’s Patrick Tracy, the founding member of the firm. He was called to Washington on hush-hush business. We’re from the West Coast office. He called us in for this job.”

“You said your report’s done?” Alcetta said.

“We’ve completed our three days of preliminary investigation,” Trace said.

“Yeah?”

“We have made over twenty-five contacts with persons who know or are associated with your wife, beginning the very day that you contacted Mr. Patrick Tracy. Since that time, your wife has spent every day down at the religious temple—”

“Temple, huh? That’s a big laugh.”

“Right,” Trace said agreeably. “Down at the House of Love or the food store next door. She spends every night at her own apartment. She has very few visitors, and when she does, they are always women. No men.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What I want to know is did she kill this Swami?” Alcetta asked.

“Do you think she did?”

“Hey. She walked out on me, didn’t she? Who knows what she’s likely to do?” Alcetta asked. He didn’t wait for an answer but walked to the window and looked down into West Twenty-sixth Street.

“Miss Mangini and I conferred with the police yesterday about your wife’s involvement in the case. Our firm has very close ties to the New York City police department. At this point in time, they do not regard your wife as a prime suspect in the killing of Swami Salamanda.”

“Too bad,” Alcetta said.

“You want her to fry?”

“Naaaah. Who cares?”

“Then what’s too bad?” Trace asked.

“Too bad they didn’t both get poisoned. That would have done some good.”

“At this point in time, you seem to bear a lot of animosity toward your wife,” Trace said.

“Animosity? Naaah. I just would like to hit her in the head. That Swami, too, if somebody didn’t beat me to it.” He flapped his arms out at the sides, palms up. “I’ve been doing some checking too about this church thing she got herself involved in. It’d be bad enough if she just shaved her head and went around begging in the street, selling bowls of rice or whatever the fuck they do. But this thing is like a big sex party, this Salamanda crap. Everybody’s screwing all over the place. That’s what he’s into. What do they call it?”

“Free love?” Chico said.

“Right. Free love. A whole lot of humping. I don’t want anybody associated with me to be involved in this. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

“I can certainly understand how that is a treasure to be guarded,” Trace said. “It is our firm’s opinion that your wife was Swami Salamanda’s mistress.”

“You mean she was screwing that sand nigger?” Alcetta said.

“At this point in time, that is our best judgment,” Trace said. “It’s all in our report.”

“Oh, that bitch. I want you guys to get her. Get her good.”

“You understand, Mr. Alcetta, that next weekend your wife is probably moving to Pennsylvania.”

“What’s in Pennsylvania?” Alcetta said.

“It’s in our far-flung report,” Trace said. “Next week, the Salamanda organization is opening a new headquarters in Pennsylvania called the City of Love. As an official in the organization, your wife will undoubtedly go there. At any rate, through a personal interview with her, I can tell you that those are her plans at this point in time.”

“Next weekend, huh?”

“That’s correct,” Trace said.

“Well. You got five more days, maybe. You keep checking on her. Get something on her for me. Something I can hang her with.”

“For the divorce action?” Trace said.

Alcetta looked blank. Then he said, “Yeah. Yeah. For the divorce. Sure. You guys still want to be paid in advance?”

“It’s five hundred dollars,” Trace said. “Plus tax.”

“Why don’t you send me a bill?” Alcetta said.

Trace was about to protest, but Chico said, “Yes, Mr. Tracy, do that. Nobody carries around five hundred dollars in cash.”

“Aaaah, the hell with it, “Alcetta said. “I’ll pay now.” He pulled a bankroll from his pocket and peeled off bills. “Five hundred, you say?” He looked out of the corner of his eyes to make sure Chico was watching him.

“And twenty,” Trace said. “Tax.”

Alcetta tossed the money onto the desk and said, “You call me when you’re done. Get that bitch.”

Trace nodded. As Alcetta opened the door, Trace held up the file folder and said, “Don’t you want the report?”

“Naaah,” Alcetta said. “You hang on to it. I don’t like to read much.”

“At this point in time, we’ll save it for you,” Trace said.

The door closed and Trace nodded to Chico. “Good move on the money,” he said.

“Hit ’em in the macho. It works every time,” she said.

“Shhh. The television,” Trace said. He turned up the sound and spun the set so Chico could see the screen, which was showing Gloria Alcetta’s face. The announcer’s voice was soft over the picture.

“Police still have no leads in the bizarre murder of Swami Salamanda, the love guru, in his headquarters two nights ago. The Swami’s death leaves a void at the top of his organization, Love Is All, but unconfirmed reports say this woman—Sister Glorious—will probably be named Gurumayi (that’s lady guru) of the organization next week when they move their headquarters to Pennsylvania. Nothing is known about the background of Sister Glorious except that she is an American.”

Trace said to Chico, “See if he’s still out in the street.”

“Sure. Why?” Chico said, running to the window.

“Look for a Lincoln. He’ll be in a Lincoln.”

“Why a Lincoln?”

“They’re always in Lincolns,” Trace said.

“Too late,” Chico said. “Oh, yeah. That’s got to be his car.”

“Why?”

“It’s got a bumper strip that says Italians Make the Best Lovers.”

“Best pizza too,” Trace said. “Too bad we missed him.”

“What’d you want him for?”

“I couldn’t resist. He’s so upset at the idea of his wife divorcing him. Wait until we tell him that she’s God and God’s going to divorce him. Well, we’ll put it in our next report.”

Later, Chico asked, “One question, Trace?”

“What’s that?”

“When you were talking to Alcetta, why’d you keep saying ‘at this point in time’?”

“Italians love that,” Trace said. “It makes bullshit sound important.”

Chico grunted acknowledgment and took her trenchcoat from the rack. “Well, I’m on my way. My first big job,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”

“We got five hundred out of Angelo. I think maybe I’ll nose around and try to get something that we can make another bullshit report out of.”

He stopped Chico at the door.

“I know,” she said. “I should be careful.”

“That too. But most important, keep track of your expenses.”

The two detectives were talking to Karen Marichal in a sparsely furnished interrogation room.

“Look, Karen,” said Jackson. “Why don’t you just help us and make it easier on yourself?”

His voice seemed to echo in the high-ceilinged room where he and the girl sat facing each other across a desk. Razoni paced back and forth behind the young woman.

“I have nothing to say.”

“You’re making it difficult,” Jackson said. “We know you know Abigail, even though you told us the other night that you had never seen her before. So we’re pretty sure you know where she is.”

Karen Marichal clamped her lips tight.

“To hell with it, Tough. Let’s just book her for murder.”

Karen wheeled around in the chair to stare at Razoni. “Murder?”

“Yeah, murder. My partner didn’t tell you everything we know. We know that you and Abigail picked up the flowers that the lizard choked on. We know that Abigail was the one who handed them to him in that ceremony. Murder.”

“But…no…”

“What did you do with the flowers when you picked them up?” asked Jackson softly.

“Forget it,” Razoni said, with a wink at Jackson. “Let’s just book her.”

“Ed, why don’t you see if you can find us the statistical file on murders by poisoning?” He nodded.

“Okay, if you want. But I’ll be right back and then we book her.” Razoni was smiling as he left the room. He and Jackson had played good-guy, bad-guy so many times it had become second nature to them.

When the door closed behind Razoni, Jackson said calmly, “My partner is inclined to charge ahead. I think we could find the truth better if we all lowered our voices a little. Now what did you and Abigail do with the roses when you picked them up?”

“We brought them back to the ashram.”

“And?”

“We put them in the refrigerator.”

“Is that usual?”

“Yes.”

“Now how did Abigail get involved in the ceremony?”

“She was a new member. It was an honor for her.”

“So she got dressed, went to the refrigerator for the flowers and then went into the auditorium. Is that right?”

“I guess so.”

“Weren’t you there?”

“The ceremony was only for new members. I’ve been a member for almost a year,” Karen said. “I was next door at the store when it all happened.”

“How did it happen?” Jackson asked.

Karen Marichal thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to talk anymore.” She clamped her mouth tightly shut.

“Karen, do you understand what is happening? By your silence, you’re making it look as if you and Abigail had something to do with the murder. You denied even knowing Abigail. Then when we went to your house, you disguised your voice so we wouldn’t recognize you. Does that all sound like an innocent person with nothing to hide?”

The girl remained silent.

“I know Abigail is your lover,” Jackson said. Karen’s eyes widened in surprise. “But if she or someone else had something to do with the Swami’s death, you shouldn’t be the one to be punished. Now we can’t help you unless we find Abigail. Where is she?”

There was no answer.

“Even when we talked to you the first time and you told us your name was Keri Ellison. You might have thought that was just a joke, but it wouldn’t look good to a lot of people.”

Silence.

“Some policemen go to church, you know. I’m one of them. I’ve been singing the Kyrie Eleison since I was a boy.”

Finally she spoke. “I want a lawyer.”

“Whatever you say, Karen. But I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop charges from being filed against you. How do you think it’s going to make your family feel when you’re booked as an accessory to murder?”

“My family? They’ll probably go out to buy new clothes for the trial.”

Jackson sighed and rose. “I have some things to do outside. I’m going to leave you here. You’ll be all right.”

The girl did not answer.

In the hallway, Jackson called over a uniformed patrolman.

“I have to see Captain Mannion. There’s a suspect in there. Make sure she doesn’t leave and doesn’t hurt herself.”

The patrolman nodded. Razoni was pacing back and forth at the end of the hall.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” Jackson said. “She won’t give anything.”

“Well, you’d better go upstairs and tell the captain,” Razoni said.

When they walked into Mannion’s office, Razoni said pleasantly, “Hiya, Schultz. How’s everything in the weasel family?”

“He’s been looking for you. Where you been?”

“Where we’re supposed to be,” Razoni said. “At police headquarters, doing police business. It’s kind of interesting work, Schultz. You ought to try it sometime if you ever get tired of being a ribbon clerk.” He leaned over the sergeant’s desk. “I know, Schultz. ‘Very funny.’”

Schultz pressed a button on the telephone. “Detective Jackson’s here, sir,” he said. Pause. “Yes, sir. He’s here too.”

He nodded them toward Captain Mannion’s door.

The gooseneck lamp on Mannion’s desk had been raised to the full intimidation angle. It shone sharply into their eyes as the two detectives sat down in the straight-backed wooden chairs. Behind the desk, they could barely see Mannion’s outline, curled in a wreath of cigarette smoke.

“Okay, let’s have it. First you, Jackson, on Abigail Longworth. The mayor’s going batshit. The commissioner’s going batshit. Longworth is screaming that he’ll take the department apart on television. What about that girl?”

“Well, it’s complicated, Captain,” Jackson began.

“Complicated? Do you know where she is or not? How complicated is that?”

“Well, actually, Captain, yes and no,” interjected Razoni, trying to be helpful.

“Quiet, Razoni. I’m talking to Jackson.”

“No, Captain,” said Jackson. “We haven’t found her yet. But we’ve picked up somebody who we think knows where she is.”

“Who’s that?”

Razoni squirmed in his seat.

“Her name is Karen Marichal,” said Jackson. “She’s a friend of the Longworth girl.”

Razoni drummed his fingers on the edge of his chair.

“I see, Jackson. And why do you think she knows where Abigail Longworth is?” Mannion asked.

Razoni could stand it no longer. “Because she and the Longworth brat are lezzies and they poisoned the lizard.” He nodded to emphasize his words, as if congratulating himself on a job well done.

Mannion sank back in his chair. The two detectives could hear air sipping into his mouth. Then there was only silence in the room. And finally the silence was broken by a sound neither had ever heard before. Mannion was chuckling. Razoni found the sound terrifying.

Mannion chuckled a little more, then said, “Razoni, I’ve got to hand it to you. You really do have a strange sense of humor. You must be a barrel of laughs during the day.”

“I’m not joking, Captain. They killed the guru. The one that ate the roses.”

“What?” Mannion rose to his feet behind the desk, a gorgon rising out of some primitive darkness. His face was visible as he leaned forward over the gooseneck lamp. His neck was bulging, throbbing with tightened tendons, his jaw half-open, ready to scream.

Razoni decided he had done his bit. “Tough, you better tell him all about it,” he said.

“Jackson?” Mannion spoke just the one word, phrased like a question, but managed to make it sound like a plea for Jackson to rescue him from this maniacal Italian.

“Well, Captain, we’re not sure yet, but that’s what it’s beginning to look like.”

“But why? What reason did they have to do in that bearded bastard?”

“If we knew that, Captain, we’d know it all,” said Jackson.

Mannion sat back heavily in his chair and snatched his cigarette from the edge of the desk. It had already gone out. He puffed loudly anyway, then stopped and lit the cigarette, puffed again, and exhaled the smoke with the sound of defective air brakes.

“Okay. Let’s let that go for a while. Now, where is the Longworth brat?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“But she hasn’t been kidnapped?”

“No.”

“But you don’t know where she is?”

“No,” Razoni interrupted, “but we’ve got an idea.”

This was news to Jackson, who stared at his partner as intently as Mannion did.

“If we let out the word that we’re holding this Marichal chickie in the lizard’s killing, it might bring Abigail out of the woodwork.”

“Why should it?” asked Mannion.

“’Cause she’s a fag,” Razoni said. “These two are lezzies. You know how they are, Captain. Smooching up to each other and everything. Doing dirty things. Writing poems. When Abigail hears that her fag girlfriend is in the slammer, her little fag heart is going to say, ‘Oh, oh, I’ve got to protect my little fag lezzie sweetheart,’ and she’ll show up.”

“You seem to have it all figured out, Razoni.”

“Yes, sir, Captain. Comes from thinking ahead. Of course, a lot of the credit goes to Tough. It was his idea too,” Razoni said graciously. “I mean, once
I
discovered that they were fagolas.”

Mannion sucked on his cigarette again and shook his head sadly. “Oh, my God,” he said. “I’m going to have to talk to the commissioner.” He put the cigarette back on the edge of the desk. “All right. Here’s what we do for now. Let the department p.r. man put out a statement that the Marichal kid is being questioned in connection with Salamanda’s murder. But that’s all. No reference, no reference at all, to Abigail. You got it?”

“Right.”

“Right.”

“When I say no reference, I mean not one word. Until we’ve got a charge on her, I don’t think we’d better say anything. And Razoni, if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything to Longworth, or anybody else for that matter, about his daughter being a fag, as you so delicately put it.”

“He won’t be upset,” Razoni said firmly.

“Why not?”

“He’s a fag too.”

“Jackson, get him out of here,” Mannion roared. He was still yelling when the door closed behind the two detectives.

“Now, what’s he yelling about?” asked Razoni. “Did I say something?”

Jackson didn’t answer and Sergeant Schultz looked happy to see Razoni discomfited. Razoni reduced his happiness by accidentally stepping on Schultz’s foot.

In the hall, Razoni assigned Jackson to tell the public-relations officer exactly what to say “and make sure the dumb shit doesn’t go running off at the mouth. The captain will hold you personally responsible.”

“Yes, sir,” Jackson said.

Razoni went downstairs to where Karen Marichal was held in the interrogation room. He had something important to ask her.

When he had chased the patrolman from the door, he went inside. The young woman was sitting rigidly at the desk. She looked up, alarmed, when she recognized Razoni.

“Don’t you hurt me,” she said.

“No, I won’t hurt you. I just want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“How does it feel to be a lesbian?”

“Oh, go screw yourself.”

“That’s what I mean,” Razoni said.