Worst Fears Realized (15 page)

“What’s up, Dino?”

Dino sipped his mineral water. “You remember Eloise Enzberg?”

“Who?”

“Mitteldorfer’s regular correspondent, a woman he used to work with.”

“Oh, yes; you had her checked out after our meeting at Sing Sing, didn’t you?”

“Yeah; she told us nothing, and neither did her neighbors.”

“What’s up with her?”

“Nothing, anymore.”

“What?”

“They pulled her body out of the East River this morning. She was once a government employee, so her prints were available.”

“Any suspects?”

“Just the one.”

“Why would he kill her?” Stone asked.

“Maybe he used her, then dumped her.”

“Used her for what? He was in prison, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, and I don’t have an answer to your question.”

“How did she die?”

“Her throat was cut.”

“That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“All too familiar. There’s something else.”

“What?”

“She was wearing a Chanel suit.”

“Maybe she was a wealthy lady?”

Dino shook his head. “She apparently took early retirement from her job last year, and she lived on her pension. I don’t see how it could have been very much.”

“So a Chanel suit would have been out of the question?”

“Yes, unless she got lucky in a secondhand shop.”

“Who’s to say she didn’t do just that? I’m sorry, but it just doesn’t make sense for Mitteldorfer to kill a woman who had been kind to him for years. And if you’re right about her income, money couldn’t have been a motive.”

Their lunch arrived, and they ate the food in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

“So, tell me about this new car,” Dino said finally.

Stone related his buying experience.

Dino laughed. “I’ve never known you to own a car, and right out of the gate, you buy
that
?”

Stone shrugged. “Sarah said to get something nice.”

“A fucking
armored car
?”

“Lightly armored. And anyway, right now seems a pretty good time to have an armored car, wouldn’t you say?”

“You got a point,” Dino admitted.

Stone put down his fork. “Have you been to Eloise Enzberg’s place?”

“No, the detectives who caught the homicide have, though; they say it’s unremarkable, just what you’d expect.”

“Let’s go take a look at it,” Stone said.

“The key is in my pocket,” Dino replied, signaling for a check.

The building was an undistinguished row house in the East Eighties, near York Avenue, in what used to be Germantown. Eloise Enzberg had lived in a second-floor, rear apartment. Dino removed the crime-scene tape and let them into the place.

Stone looked around. It was fairly plain, with a lot of heavy Germanic furniture—respectable, with a kind of seedy elegance. Stone went to a small desk in the living room and began opening drawers. “Here’s her
checkbook,” he said, removing it from a drawer and opening it on the desktop. He began leafing through the stubs. There was nothing out of the ordinary—checks for utilities, rent, groceries, liquor, and household repairs. “Nothing here,” he said. He looked through the old bills. “She apparently had only one credit card, and the balance was less than five hundred dollars.”

Dino was going through the bedroom drawers. “Very neat,” he called, “but nothing from Victoria’s Secret.”

Stone walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. “Suitcases still here,” he said. “She didn’t seem to be going anywhere.” The closet was full of clothes, not expensive and very nearly dowdy.

“Not much in the way of family pictures,” Dino said, pointing to the top of a dresser, where two framed photographs sat. One was an old photograph of a woman, apparently in her thirties, wearing severe black clothes; the other was of the same woman, holding a baby wearing a lace communion dress. “My guess is, it’s Ms. Enzberg in her mother’s arms.”

Stone nodded. “The clothes and shoes are nothing special,” he said. “Any jewelry?”

Dino took a padded box from a dresser drawer. “Here we go.” He opened the box. “Nothing expensive; looks European.”

“Probably her mother’s. Have you located her next of kin?”

“A nephew,” Dino said, “lives in Jersey. We found some correspondence with him. He came in late this morning; didn’t know anything; hadn’t seen her for months.”

“Let’s check the kitchen,” Stone said. The kitchen was well stocked with pots, pans, knives, and implements. “She was a pretty serious cook,” Stone said. He bent over and opened a cabinet door. As he did, half a dozen neatly folded shopping bags slid off a shelf to the floor. “Look at this,” he said, placing the bags on a countertop. “Chanel, Saks, Bergdorf’s, Ferragamo. They clash with the lifestyle, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’d say so,” Dino agreed. “Were there any payments to any of those stored in her checkbook or credit-card receipts?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then she’d have been paying with cash.”

“Or someone was paying for her.”

“Mitteldorfer? What would a prisoner in Sing Sing be doing with that kind of money?”

“Good question. Where did Mitteldorfer work? You remember?”

Dino took out his notebook and flipped through some pages. “Ginzberg and O’Sullivan, accountants, on West Forty-seventh Street.”

“Let’s talk to them.”

Dino picked up a phone and, consulting his notebook, dialed a number. “Hello, may I speak to Mr. Ginzberg? Yes? How about Mr. O’Sullivan? I see. I’m looking for information on someone who worked there more than a dozen years ago; is there anyone in who’s been around that long? I see. This is Lieutenant Bacchetti of the New York City Police Department; could I have his home address and number?” He scribbled it down and hung up. “The original partners sold out a few years ago and retired. O’Sullivan
is still alive; he lives in the East Seventies; let’s go see him.”

Daniel O’Sullivan was a big, bluff Irish-American in his late seventies, with snow-white hair and a florid complexion, who still wore his weight well. He seemed glad to have visitors. He showed them into a spacious, beautifully furnished apartment that took up a whole floor of a brownstone, offered them a drink, and, when they declined, fixed one for himself.

“It’s not often I get visited by the police,” he said, settling in a big armchair. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. O’Sullivan,” Dino said, “do you remember Herbert Mitteldorfer?”

“Herbie? How could I forget him? He was the only one of my employees—that I know of—who ever murdered somebody.”

“Can you tell us what Mitteldorfer’s job was in your firm?”

“Sure; he was my top accountant.”

“Could you describe his duties? Did he do corporate work?”

O’Sullivan shook his big head. “No, no; we weren’t an ordinary accounting firm. We were personal managers to theater people—actors, producers, set designers—people at the top of their fields. We paid their bills, invested their money, got them bank loans and mortgages, sometimes loaned them money, when they had lean years.”

“And what part did Mitteldorfer take in the business?”

“Herbie did a little of everything. He started with us as a simple bookkeeper; but he was so good, so bright, that soon he was taking an active part in managing our clients’ accounts. By the time of the, ah, unfortunate incident, he was practically running the firm. My partner and I were thinking of retirement by then, and we’d expected to sell out to him. As it was, after he was arrested, we had to put our plans on hold. It took several years before we got two other men trained to do what Herbie did, and, finally, we sold out to them.”

Stone spoke up. “Did Mitteldorfer have any personal wealth?”

“His wife did,” O’Sullivan replied. “She was from a meat-packing family out of Chicago—not filthy rich, but she had some assets, which Herbie managed brilliantly. At the time of her death, I believe, together they may have had two, three million in assets, or so Herbie told me. The lawyers would have made a pretty good dent in that, but I’m sure that when he went to jail, he still had some money put away. Plus, there was a very nice apartment on lower Park Avenue that her family gave them as a wedding present. I believe that was sold.”

“But,” Stone said, “having murdered his wife, he wouldn’t have been able to inherit her wealth.”

“It had all been in Herbie’s name for years,” O’Sullivan said. “He made sure of that.”

“Do you remember another employee named Eloise Enzberg?”

“Sure, I do. Eloise was with us for better than twenty years, longer than Herbie. She was our office manager, the best-organized person you ever saw. Day in, day out, she made the place work. If you gave
her a job to do, she’d handle it better than anybody, and she
never
dropped the ball, not once in all the years I knew her. I mean, if you said to Eloise, ‘I’m going to London for a week,’ inside an hour she’d made hotel and restaurant reservations and booked a car and driver to meet you at the airport. When you got to your hotel, you were in your usual suite, with extra towels and a bottle of wine waiting.”

“Do you know what sort of relationship Mitteldorfer and Enzberg had?” Stone asked.

“Well,” O’Sullivan said, smiling, “she was sweet on Herbie, she really was. When he was charged with his wife’s murder, she refused to believe it. She was in court every day, took him things in jail—books, fruit. But you have to understand, women
loved
Herbie Mitteldorfer. I mean, he wasn’t good-looking, but he was a snappy dresser, had charm and wit, never forgot any woman’s birthday. He had quite a beautiful wife. I was astonished when he killed her; we all were.”

“Mitteldorfer was released from prison a few days ago,” Dino said, “and this morning, Eloise Enzberg’s body was found in the East River, her throat cut.”

O’Sullivan’s face fell. “Well, I’m really sorry to hear that. She was a very nice lady.” He thought for a moment. “And Herbie’s out? Do you think there’s a connection?”

“Do you think Herbert Mitteldorfer could have killed Eloise Enzberg, Mr. O’Sullivan?” Stone asked.

“Of course not,” O’Sullivan scoffed. “That could never have happened. Herbie wouldn’t have done that.” He looked thoughtful. “Of course,” he said, “that’s what we all said when Herbie murdered his wife.”

26

H
OWARD MENZIES LEFT HIS APARTMENT
building at the stroke of 9:00
A.M.
, dressed in his most conservative suit, unconsciously fingering his rather recently grown Van Dyke beard.

The doorman greeted him warmly, “And how are you and Mrs. Menzies today?” he asked.

“I’m very well, Jeff, but I’m afraid Mrs. Menzies was taken ill last night while visiting a friend, and she spent the night over there. I’m just on my way to see her now.”

“I hope she’s better,” Jeff said. “Would you like a taxi?”

“No, I think I’ll walk,” Menzies replied. “Oh, by the way, some men will deliver some boxes this morning and will be doing some installations. Please let them into my apartment.”

“Of course, sir.”

He strolled over to Fifth Avenue and walked
briskly down the west side of the street, taking in Central Park. At Fifty-ninth Street, he walked into the Plaza Hotel, was given a table by the window in the Edwardian Room, and ate an enormous breakfast. Thus fortified, he crossed Fifth Avenue and entered the Bergdorf Goodman Men’s Store, just as it opened, marveling at the handsome new shops, which had not existed when he had last been in the city. He stopped in the Charvet shop and bought a dozen shirts and neckties, taking one of each with him and sending the others. He took the elevator upstairs and after touring the clothing shops, walked into the Oxxford shop and bought four suits, noting with pleasure that a size thirty-eight still fit him perfectly. Only the trouser lengths needed altering. He requested that one suit be made ready to wear immediately, then walked around the store for half an hour while the work was done, making other purchases. When he returned to the Oxxford shop, he went into a changing room and got into his new suit, shirt, tie, and shoes, instructing that his old clothing be discarded. Finally, he bought a new hat and, on the way out, his eye was caught by an antique ebony walking stick with a silver handle.

Swinging his new stick, he crossed Fifth Avenue and, feeling quite the boulevardier, strolled west on Fifty-seventh Street until he came to the address his researches on the internet had provided. He took the elevator to the top floor and emerged into a comfortable, if anonymous waiting room. He gave his name to the receptionist and was conducted to another room, where he was seated in a barber’s chair.

Two hours later he emerged, having been fitted with a small, very becoming hairpiece—one that matched his gray hair perfectly and cleverly showed a lot of forehead, making it seem all the more real. Now fully equipped, he found a photography shop and had two passport photos taken. Finally, he visited a service that specialized in the quick obtaining of visas and passports and left them with his photos, his completed passport application, his name-change documents, and a fee. He was promised his new passport the following day.

He walked back to Fifth Avenue, then downtown, and entered the Cartier store, where, after a careful viewing of their merchandise, he bought a gold Tank Francais wristwatch with the matching bracelet. Wearing his new jewelry, he continued his jaunt, shopping as he went. He bought new luggage at T. Anthony on Park Avenue and pajamas at Sulka; he bought soap and toiletries at Caswell-Massey on Lexington and ordered stationery and calling cards from Dempsey & Carroll. He finished up at the Mercedes-Benz dealership on Park Avenue.

He stood for a moment and gazed at a silver S600 sedan, revolving slowly on a turntable.

“May I help you, sir?” a salesman asked, covertly noting the customer’s fine clothing.

“I believe,” Menzies said, pointing with his stick, “that is the car with the V-12 engine, is it not?”

“It is, indeed, sir. The world’s finest automobile, in fact.”

“And how much is it?”

The salesman quoted the price. “Plus sales tax,
gas-guzzler tax, and luxury tax,” he said.