The lady in the silver c.., p.15
The Lady in the Silver Cloud, page 15
“Is that right? What kind?”
“Frank told me that George got curious some time back and asked Bullets what Muriel’s story was. Bullets politely asked him to step outside and proceeded to drive a giant fist into George’s side. Cracked three ribs—plus Frank said George was pissing blood for a week. That took care of his curiosity.”
“Hmm.” Very sipped his espresso. “Maybe it did, maybe it didn’t.”
“Let’s say Bullets is our man . . .”
Very nodded. “Let’s. He’s definitely our prime suspect, considering he was Muriel’s chauffeur for twelve years and was intensely loyal to her. He’s also an old-time enforcer who has plenty of notches on his belt. And that V-8 engine our Vogue editor heard idling outside of George’s apartment could have belonged to his Buick LeSabre.”
“All true,” I acknowledged. “But how did Bullets figure out that it was George who shoved Muriel down those stairs?”
“Same way I did—from George’s bookie, Choo-Choo. Bullets still has contacts all over town. He’s the one who located the jewelry that Trevor stole from Muriel, don’t forget. So maybe he made some phone calls. So maybe Choo-Choo mentioned to a mutual friend that George paid him two-grand today in crisp, new hundred-dollar bills. The exact same kind of bills that Muriel carried in her pocketbook. To Bullets that would mean one thing and one thing only—that it was George who killed her. How the hell else would George suddenly score two grand? Bullets had gone home to Rego Park by then, I’m assuming. So he grabbed a knife from the kitchen, drove his LeSabre back to the Upper West Side, and waited there on West Eighty-Second for George to get home from his shift. He was plenty well acquainted with the man’s schedule. Plus that all fits with what the ME told me at the murder scene.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“That George’s killer was big and strong, and that he stuck him with a long, sharp kitchen knife, most likely a carving knife—although he wasn’t positive about that last part. Didn’t want to remove it until he got George on the examining table.”
“The killer left the knife in him?”
Very nodded. “Drove it deep into George’s gut, gave it a twist for good measure, and left it there. And he’d clamped a big hand over George’s mouth to keep him from letting out a scream. The whole lower half of George’s face was red. His mouth was bruised.”
“I noticed.”
“He also wore gloves. Left no prints behind on the handle of the knife.”
“Sounds as if we can eliminate her nephew, Trevor, the runt.”
“He’s in a holding cell at the two-four for the night, remember?”
“But his friend Loki isn’t. Maybe he’s a big, strong guy.”
“Maybe.” Very gazed out the window at the predawn darkness of Central Park. “But he’s also a brain-dead tweaker same as Trevor. And, just for the sake of discussion, let’s say Trevor called Loki from the precinct house and told him to bump off George. How would Trevor have found out about George? How would he know where George lived? And is he together enough between the ears that it would even occur to him to avenge his aunt’s murder? Nope, don’t buy it.”
“I don’t either. I’m just considering all of the possibilities.”
“Which is smart.” Very flashed a grin at me. “I’m finally rubbing off on you.”
“Any chance that Choo-Choo could be behind it?”
“Wouldn’t think so. George had just handed over a healthy chunk of money. Why do away with him now?”
“Okay, then let’s come at this from a different direction,” I said, sipping my espresso. “What if it was someone else who killed Muriel—as in not George—and George knew about it and was holding him up for money?”
“That plays,” Very conceded. “You have anyone specific in mind?”
“Raoul. He’s the one who found Muriel’s body on the fifteenth-floor landing, after all. Maybe the reason he found it is because he’s the one who shoved her down those stairs. Maybe George witnessed it when he was making the rounds. You did say the ME thinks someone big and strong knifed George, and I’ll admit that Raoul’s not exactly Evander Holyfield. But he’s wiry, had the element of surprise on his side, and if he was wearing a pair of heavy work gloves, they would have reddened the bottom of George’s face that way.”
Very considered this carefully, thumbing his chin. “I don’t like Raoul for killing the old lady. He has himself too sweet a setup here. This whole building’s his oyster. Why would he risk messing with that?”
“Maybe Muriel found out something about him that could have gotten him fired. Or possibly even worse.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“Such as that maybe he raped one of those young Guatemalan housekeepers. Or maybe one of them is under legal age, which would mean he committed statutory rape. That’s a felony.”
“I’m aware of this, dude. I’m a police officer, remember?”
“Muriel was no shrinking violet. If she thought Raoul did wrong by any of those girls, she would have told him straightaway that she was taking it to the co-op board. Possibly the police, too. So Raoul killed her to shut her up. Stole her nice, fat pocketbook for good measure. The man is plenty greedy. He has no pension, you know.”
“But does he have a car?”
“Could have borrowed one from one of his pals. It’s also possible that the Chevy V-8 our Vogue editor heard idling outside of George’s at two a.m. had nothing whatsoever to do with George. Maybe a jealous boyfriend was buzzing his girlfriend to find out if she was really sick in bed like she told him she was.”
“I would never, ever do that to Norma. I trust her and she trusts me.”
“Is it my imagination or did we just segue into another conversation about you and your love life?”
Very chose to ignore that remark. Either that or he wasn’t listening to me anymore. He seemed lost in thought. After a long moment, he drained the last drops of his espresso and said, “Okay, you talked me into it. We need to have another sit-down with Raoul. Is there anyone else in play? Tell me about Frank.”
“He’s a third-generation Irish American doorman from Queens. Outgoing, cheerful. A bit of a gossip, but a good guy. Also a big guy with big hands and big money troubles.”
“I thought those doormen have a strong union. Make good bucks.”
“They do. He does. But don’t forget he also has an unmarried sister who just lost her own unionized supermarket job of thirty-two years thanks to Gary Kates’s corporate pillaging. And if that had been Gary lying dead on the fifteenth-floor landing instead of Muriel, I’d point my finger right at Frank because he has to foot the bill for his sister’s operation. He’s also got a son who’s a freshman at St. John’s and a mother-in-law who’s in a nursing home in the Bronx. He was complaining to me just the other day that he’s never had serious money trouble in his life—until now.”
Very gazed out the window again. “Keep talking.”
“Frank was working the hallways at eight o’clock on Halloween night same as George—shooing kids home, encouraging residents to wrap up their parties. Maybe Muriel encountered him on her way back to her apartment. Maybe he tried to hit her up for a loan, and when she refused, he grabbed her and pulled her into the stairwell. He wore white doorman’s gloves, same as George, and wouldn’t have worried about leaving fingerprints on the door latch or the bannister. He was well aware that Muriel liked to carry a wad of bucks in her pocketbook. And he’s in serious need of bucks, like I said, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I just don’t see it. Frank takes a lot of pride in his job. He’d never try to brace a resident for money. It’s unprofessional. I also happen to like the guy, as you may have surmised.” I tugged at my ear. “Still . . .”
He peered at me. “Still what?”
“When Frank was running through the details of their Halloween security setup for us down in the lobby yesterday, George showed up late for his shift, remember?”
“I remember.”
“And Frank was peeved at him, remember?”
“Yeah. He said something about how his wife would already have dinner on the table. So?”
“So I got the feeling that there was something more going on between the two of them. He seemed genuinely pissed at George, which isn’t typical of Frank. He’s usually a good-natured guy.”
Very mulled that over a moment. It was silent in my office. The predawn traffic was very light on Central Park West sixteen floors below. “Are you thinking that maybe he knew that George showed up so late because he’d been to the Dublin House to pay off Choo-Choo?”
“I’m thinking he may know something that we don’t know. I’m thinking maybe it’s worth having a conversation with him.”
“I’m right there with you, dude. Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to go home and grab a couple of hours of shut-eye because I’m about ready to drop. And then I’ll be back to get you at about nine, nine thirty, unless you need to write.”
“I won’t be able to write. Not until we settle this. What’s your plan?”
“My plan is we keep Raoul in our hip pocket for now. If we need him, we know where to find him. Tomorrow, which is to say today, is Frank’s day off. He’ll be home raking leaves and storing his patio furniture for the winter, I’m guessing.”
“You can always call him if you want to make sure.”
Very shook his head at me. “Haven’t I taught you anything since you stuck your nose into my life? You never, ever tip off a person of interest that you’re coming by. You just, ba-boom, show up.”
“Is that what you’d call Frank—a person of interest?”
“Most definitely. But, as of right now, Bullets still ranks as our prime suspect for gutting George. So our first stop will be Rego Park. And I’m driving.”
“In your dreams. We’re taking the Jag.”
“Not going to happen, dude. This ain’t no party. This ain’t no disco. This ain’t no fooling around. It’s a double murder investigation. We’ll be arriving in an official vehicle.”
“Do you have Bullets under surveillance?”
“What for?”
“Because if he’s your prime suspect, he could be halfway to the Canadian border by the time we show up.”
“He could be, but he won’t be. Bullets isn’t going anywhere. He’ll just be sitting in a big lounge chair in his living room, waiting for us.”
“How do you know that?”
“Dude, how many times do I have to tell you that this is what I do for a living? I know it, okay? Now do you have anything else for me? Because I’m about ready to keel over.”
“Actually, I do have one more idea, now that you mention it.”
Very sighed wearily. “Okay, lay it on me.”
So I laid it on him.
I’ll say this for Romaine Very—he did know exactly what he was talking about, not that I had doubted him for one second. Bullets Durmond’s own living room was exactly where we found Muriel Cantrell’s former chauffeur in the morning, seated in a comfy old lounge chair, wearing a burly navy-blue cardigan sweater that looked hand-knit, baggy gray slacks, carpet slippers, and a pair of the reddest, most swollen eyes I’d ever seen. The big man was so utterly grief-stricken that he was there but wasn’t there. Didn’t so much as acknowledge our presence after we rang the bell and his sister, Rose, ushered us in, her own face etched with worry.
It was a dark, rainy morning with a cold November wind blowing. I wore my trench coat and fedora over the barley tweed suit I’d had made for me in London by Strickland & Sons, a pale-blue shirt, burgundy knit tie, and my Gore-Tex street bluchers. Lulu wore her custom-made duck-billed C. C. Filson rain hat. She’s susceptible to sinus problems when she catches colds. Snores like a lumberjack when she has them. I know this because she likes to sleep on my head. Very had picked us up at 9:27. We were waiting for him under the awning out front when he pulled up with a screech, which reminded me that his brakes weren’t so hot, either. Merilee had been fast asleep when I’d returned to bed. When I reluctantly got up three hours later to shave, dress, feed Lulu, and down an espresso, she was still out cold, being on Hungarian time. I kissed her on the forehead, stroking her hair gently before I left. She murmured something that sounded vaguely like “woo-tee-ma.”
After a bone-jarring, teeth-rattling twenty-minute drive, we crossed the windswept Queensboro Bridge, and Romaine Very worked the battered Crown Vic through the rainy-day traffic on Queens Boulevard. He was unusually pensive and quiet that morning. Asked me nothing. Volunteered no new information. Just drove. He wore a black, hooded rain parka over his usual turtleneck, jeans, and motorcycle boots. Lulu rode between us on the bench seat, her tail thumping happily. She loves to ride in police cars. On rainy days, her protective oily coat gave off a strong scent, not unlike castor oil, that would cling to Very’s front seat for, well, ever. But he was so preoccupied he didn’t seem to notice.
Rego Park is a solid working-class Queens neighborhood sandwiched in between Elmhurst, notable home of the giant red-and-white-striped Elmhurst gas tanks, and the somewhat more upscale Forest Hills. Bullets lived on Alderton Street, south of Queens Boulevard, north of Woodhaven. The place he shared with Rose was a small, squat one-story redbrick house built in the 1930s, I would guess, with a hip-high chain-link fence and gate surrounding it. A red ’87 Buick LeSabre was parked out front. His. Unless red ’87 Buick LeSabres were super popular in Rego Park, and who’s to say they weren’t?
The house seemed even smaller and squatter on the inside. Maybe because of the low ceiling. Maybe because of the two huge people who lived there. Rose was an only slightly scaled-down female version of the big guy—nearly six feet tall and built like a fullback. She had a shock of iron-gray hair, piercing dark eyes, a broad, flat nose, thick lips, and a downturned mouth, the kind that comes from not having smiled for something like thirty-five years. She was a few years older than Bullets, maybe sixty-five, and wore a bulky hand-knit cardigan herself, a large gold cross around her neck, slacks, and carpet slippers. Also a great deal of fruity perfume. Lulu, who is highly allergic to most perfumes, especially fruity ones, started sneezing immediately and stayed put by the front door when Rose gestured for us to join her in the kitchen, which looked as if it hadn’t been remodeled since the ’50s, back when the whole world was big into yellow. Yellow Formica countertops. Yellow Formica kitchen table. A set of matching chairs with yellow plastic seats and backs. Even the worn linoleum floor was a yellow-and-lime-green floral pattern. It hadn’t aged gracefully, in case you’re wondering.
The back door, which was double-bolted and chained, led out to a tiny yard where absolutely no soil or member of the plant community appeared to exist. I could make out nothing but bare pavement out there in the pouring rain.
“Sit,” Rose commanded us, closing the kitchen door softly. “Coffee?”
We both said, “Please,” as we sat at the kitchen table.
She poured us two cups from an electric percolator and put cream, sugar, and a plate of biscotti in front of us before she poured herself a cup and joined us, settling into her chair with a weary sigh. “I got to tell you, when Paulie came home Halloween night and told me that Muriel was gone, I’ve never seen him so upset in my entire life. He went straight to his room, lay down on the bed with his coat and his shoes still on, and wept and wept, moaning just like a wounded animal. I’ve been through a lot with him over the years, believe me, but nothing like this. I was so concerned about him that I called Father Mark from our parish, Resurrection-Ascension over on Sixty-First Road, and Father Mark came right over and sat with him. He was so good with him. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there and let Paulie talk and talk and talk. We’ve known Father Mark, must be twenty-seven years now. He’s one of the good ones. Really cares about people. Doesn’t just stand up there and mouth platitudes at you every Sunday morning, if you know what I mean.”
“Did you hear what your brother was saying to him?” Very asked.
“No,” she answered abruptly. “I gave him his privacy in case it was, you know, personal.”
“Do you mean you thought Father Mark might have been taking his confession?”
“I don’t know what I mean,” she said, waving Very off with a meaty hand. “I just . . . I stayed here in the kitchen, listened to Jonathan Schwartz play Sinatra on the radio, and made biscotti. Yesterday morning I convinced Paulie to shower, shave, and put on fresh clothes. But I couldn’t get him to say a word to me or eat a thing. He just sat there in his chair in the living room and sobbed all day. Father Mark came back in the late afternoon and sat with him again for hours. Well past midnight.”
“Was he here with your brother this morning at two a.m.?”
She peered at Very guardedly. “Yeah. Why you asking?”
“And he’ll confirm that?”
“Of course he will. Why you asking?” she repeated.
Very didn’t respond for a moment, no doubt because he was thinking exactly what I was thinking. If Bullets was here in Rego Park with his priest at two in the morning, sobbing, then he couldn’t have been on West Eighty-Second Street gutting George with a carving knife. “Just making conversation,” he answered finally.
“Just making conversation my Aunt Fanny,” Rose snarled at him. “You think Paulie did something, don’t you? Well, you can forget that. He didn’t. He was right here, and Father Mark will tell you so. And if you think Father Mark would tell a lie to protect Paulie, he’d never do that. He’s one of the good ones.”
“So you said.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, glaring at him.
“I was just agreeing with you,” Very said.
“Like hell you were.”
Very refused to get into an argument with her. Just sipped his coffee calmly. “You were saying Father Mark stayed and sat with your brother for hours.”
“Without so much as glancing at his watch,” she said, continuing to glare at him. “He was here for Paulie for as long as Paulie needed him. I heated up some lasagna so the poor man wouldn’t starve. When Paulie finally dozed off in his chair at around two, Father Mark quietly let himself out. But he’s already called me twice this morning to see how Paulie’s doing—which you two can see with your own eyes.”
