A Motive For Murder (11 page)

Perkins stopped pacing and stared at Auntie Lil. “In
other words, they realize how much bad publicity they’ve gotten
over the past few months and they want to cut their losses?”

“Well, yes,” T.S. interrupted. “I might summarize the
situation that way myself.” Auntie Lil glared at him, but T.S.
ignored her. He was starting to enjoy himself. He was used to
dealing with men like Perkins from his old Wall Street days,
impatient men who felt their business alone took priority. They
could not fathom why anyone else should think that what they had to
do could possibly be as important.

“Do you have an objection to the board attempting to
find out the truth?” T.S. asked Perkins calmly. T.S. had learned
that rephrasing a person’s comments into a challenging question was
a good way to put them on the defensive.

Perkins scrutinized T.S. and patted down his pockets
absently. “Of course I don’t have an objection. Why would I?”

T.S. shrugged. “Then you wouldn’t mind answering a
few questions from my aunt here?”

“Fire away,” Perkins agreed. Then, as if obeying his
own command, he walked over to a black enamel sideboard and opened
a small bottom drawer. Reaching to the very back of the
compartment, he produced a pack of cigarettes and quickly lit one
up, tapping the ashes into the base of a potted ficus tree nearby.
T.S. wondered how many hours he had managed to go without the
nicotine.

“You are the Andrew Perkins who costarred with Morgan
in
Mike and Me,
aren’t you?” Auntie Lil asked.

Perkins shrugged again. “So what? It’s no secret. He
came up to me in front of three dozen people and made a big deal
about seeing me again. Everyone knew we had acted together as kids.
If you’re suggesting I killed him out of jealousy because he got
the lead in
Mike and Me
twenty-five years ago and I didn’t,
you couldn’t be more wrong. I enjoyed every bit as much success as
him. I got just as much fan mail and, when it was all over, just as
many offers for more work: zero, zippo, absolutely nothing.”

“Were you surprised to see him again?” Auntie Lil
asked, ignoring his outburst. “You had nothing to do with his
returning to New York and offering his son for the role?”

Perkins shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t invite
him, if that’s what you mean. I’d just as soon he’d stayed in L.A.”
He walked over to the window and stared out. A tugboat was moving
up the Hudson far below and he watched its slow progress
intently.

“My aunt asked if you had anything to do with his
returning to New York,” T.S. pointed out. “Not whether you invited
him.”

Perkins stared at T.S. “Bobby may have come back to
the Metro just to piss me off,” he finally said. “If that’s what
you’re getting at. He was like that. Might have wanted to rub my
face in how well his kid was doing, compared to mine. Bobby always
had to win more than anyone else. But I doubt that’s why he showed
up on the Metro’s doorstep. I doubt I’m important enough for the
great Bobby Morgan to really give a crap about, to be perfectly
honest.” He stopped and stared at T.S. again. “Have we met before?”
he asked abruptly.

“It’s possible,” T.S. said. “I understand you work on
Wall Street. I worked at Sterling & Sterling for twenty-seven
years. As personnel manager.”

Perkins nodded. “I interviewed there once for a job.
Didn’t get it. Went on to Salomon. I was their top bond producer
for three years in a row. In the eighties. Made a pile of dough.
Who needed acting?”

“Congratulations,” T.S. said dryly. “How are things
going in the bond world now that we’re in the nineties?” T.S. knew
full well that the bottom had dropped out of the bond market and
that everyone’s top producers were struggling these days.

“I quit,” Perkins said. He ground out his cigarette
and lit another. “Time to move on.”

The man sounded suddenly as if he did not have a care
in the world. T.S. was intrigued by his combination of arrogance
and defensiveness. The oddest references seemed to set him off.
Perhaps T.S. had turned Perkins down for the job and he still
harbored a grudge. T.S. could not remember for sure, but it was
possible. He had turned many people down over the years.

Auntie Lil had been watching T.S. question Perkins
and her eyes glittered with a dangerous curiosity. She sensed the
undercurrents in the room and was intent on uncovering their
meaning. “What do you do now?” she asked Perkins. “Manage your
daughter’s career?”

Perkins perched on the edge of the low-slung sofa.
“My daughter can manage her own career,” he said. “She’s sixteen
years old, going on thirty-five. I don’t know what I intend to do
next but I am sure I will think of something.”

Better make it quick,
T.S. thought,
calculating the probable mortgage and maintenance charges on such
an opulent apart–ment, not to mention the tuition for Perkins’s
daughter at the Metropolitan and all the expenses that went along
with a professional dancing career.

“Your daughter lives with you?” Auntie Lil asked.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Auntie Lil shrugged. “I was just thinking of how
fortunate she is to have such a nice apartment so close to the
school. Many of the other children aren’t so lucky. They live at
the YMCA or as boarders with other families.”

“And many of the other children aren’t so fortunate
as to be given a role they don’t deserve,” Perkins added
suddenly.

“I didn’t say that,” Auntie Lil said. “I saw her as
Clara the night of Morgan’s death. She did a very capable job.”

“My daughter was not ready to dance that role,”
Perkins said. “I was against it. It’s too soon. She needs time to
develop, time to gain enough confidence in her technique to expand
her interpretation. She may have the body of a young woman, but she
is still a child in many ways. She needs seasoning. Didn’t you see
the reviews? They will harm her career.”

“Then why did you allow it?” Auntie Lil asked.

Perkins laughed. “Allow it? You obviously have not
yet met my daughter. My opinion is of no consequence to her.”

“What does her mother think about it?” Auntie Lil
asked.

Perkins inhaled deeply and blew a long stream of
smoke from his mouth, his eyes narrowing. “I wouldn’t know. Neither
would Julie. We haven’t seen her in several years. Not since she
packed up and left when Julie was up in Sarasota with the company
one summer. To be frank, it was no great loss.”

“That must have been hard on Julie,” Auntie Lil
remarked.

“Nothing is hard on Julie,” Perkins said. “Unless
it’s about dance. That’s all that matters to her.”

“Then she, at least, must have been delighted to have
performed the lead,” Auntie Lil said.

“I’m sure she was.” He stood up with a sudden jerk.
“What more do you want to know? I don’t really see how I can be of
help. Whoever killed Bobby Morgan probably had a good reason to do
it. He was that kind of a guy.”

“How do you know?” Auntie Lil asked. “I thought you
hadn’t seen him in years.”

“I hadn’t,” Perkins replied. He stared out the window
again. “I’ve been following his career as an agent. He couldn’t
have picked a better occupation, given his talents.” His laugh was
short and bitter. “Bobby Morgan, big man about town, on top again,
twisting the strings, torturing the people who tortured him,
getting even for his bad skin and tendency to bloat. Ah, but
revenge can be sweet.”

“You think he became an agent just to get revenge for
the way he had been treated?” T.S. asked.

“Of course not.” Perkins strode to the ficus tree and
ground out his second cigarette with one swift gesture. “He became
an agent so he could make millions. And he did. He got one
screwed-up kid out of the bargain, but hey— what did he care? He
became a millionaire.”

“You consider Mikey Morgan a troubled child?” Auntie
Lil asked.

“I don’t consider him a child at all,” Perkins said.
“I consider him an abomination.”

“Is there anyone in particular who you think might
have wanted to see Bobby Morgan dead?” T.S. asked.

“I can think of a dozen people without ever moving
east of L.A. But I don’t have a shred of evidence that any of them
did it, so I refuse to give you any names.” He produced yet another
cigarette, then gazed sadly into the now empty pack. He would soon
be facing the big decision of whether to break down and buy a new
pack or try to quit again.

“Where were you the night he was murdered?” Auntie
Lil asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Perkins said, standing up
straight and staring at Auntie Lil.

“I presume you were at the performance,” Auntie Lil
answered, “watching your daughter enjoy her big moment.”

“Of course I was there,” Perkins said, looking at his
watch. “She may be ungrateful and stubborn, but she’s my daughter.
Why? Want to see my ticket stub?” His tone and subsequent laugh
were both sarcastic, an attitude that Auntie Lil despised. T.S. was
suddenly glad he might have turned Perkins down for employment
years ago. He hoped he’d been rude about it.

“Well, we won’t trouble you anymore,” Auntie Lil said
suddenly. “May I use the ladies’ room first?”

“Down the hall,” Perkins said, nodding toward the
back of the apartment.

Auntie Lil was like a camel, capable of going without
water or a bathroom break for days, if need be. T.S. knew this and
had a feeling she was up to something. In such situations, his
time-honored role was to distract. “So, you worked at Salomon?” he
asked Perkins easily. “Which bond desk? I know a few good men over
there still.”

As T.S. began to name acquaintances—receiving
desultory replies from an unenthusiastic Perkins—Auntie Lil
scurried down the hall. The first bedroom was clearly Perkins’s. It
was as neat and sparse as the rest of the apartment. But the second
room had to be his daughter’s. It had all the telltale signs of a
young dancer’s abode. Leotards were flung over chairs and heaped on
the floor, discarded toe shoes hung from nails on the wall, posters
of Baryshnikov and Nureyev decorated the doors where other young
girls might pin images of rock stars. Sweatpants with the legs cut
off at midthigh were tossed across the bed and assorted trim and
discarded ribbons from various costumes littered the pale pink
carpet. Auntie Lil crept inside the room and peeked into the
closet. There were few street clothes hanging inside. She opened
the drawers of the pink dresser, her innate nosiness taking over.
Many of the drawers held only a few articles of clothing, often
hastily pushed to one side as if someone had searched through there
before her. Two of the drawers were completely empty. Auntie Lil
identified the probable compartments for underwear, socks, shirts,
pajamas and pants. That meant the empty drawers had probably
contained dance apparel such as more leotards, cutoff sweatshirts,
and leggings. That was odd. She checked around the room for the
ubiquitous oversized tote bag that no dancer could afford to be
without. Nothing. She examined the dresser top and the adjoining
bathroom for makeup. Again, nothing—an unheard of situation for a
sixteen-year-old female dancer. She then exam–ined the discarded
clothing more carefully, even going so far as to handle the texture
of the fabric and sniff delicately at its surface. Auntie Lil
hadn’t checked up on how well the models treated her clothes during
runway shows for decades and learned nothing. The clothing was
stiff with long-dried old sweat and no overt smell remained. Auntie
Lil was sure that the clothing had been flung there at least a few
days before and then left exactly as it was. Julie Perkins did not
live in this room or in this apart–ment anymore. Why had her father
lied?

When she returned to the living room, Perkins was
still standing by the window, looking bored. T.S. was looking
determinedly cheerful.

“Ready to go,” she announced brightly as a wave of
relief swept over both men’s faces. “Thank you for your time.”

“No problem,” Perkins replied, suddenly friendly.

His mood changes were constant. As they walked back
toward the brass elevator both Auntie Lil and T.S. wondered if
maybe the man wasn’t on some sort of medication. They shared their
concern on the way down.

“Something was odd,” Auntie Lil agreed. “He seemed to
resent the most innocuous questions. And he was up and down like a
rabbit.”

“Yes, he was touchy about such innocent questions.
Like where he worked,” T.S. decided. “I’m going to call my friend
Victor over at Salomon and see what I can find out about Andrew
Perkins.”

“Victor?” Auntie Lil said as they emerged into the
lobby. “Isn’t that the tiny little man with the gorgeous six-foot
wife? The one who loves fishing?”

T.S. shook his head in admiration. She was on in
years, but his Aunt Lil seldom forgot a detail about the people she
met.

Auntie Lil was not ready to call it a day. First she
suggested a walk through Central Park, an option that T.S.’s feet
could not afford. So when he spotted a theater near Columbus Circle
that was showing Mikey Morgan’s latest escapade, he suggested a
movie instead. They were just in time for the last matinee before
the evening rush and snagged plum seats in the middle of a center
row.

“The last movie I saw was in 1966,” Auntie Lil
confided. “That one about fashion.
Blow-Up,
I think it was
called. They got all the little details wrong. Maybe it didn’t
bother some people, but it bothered me.”

“Movies have come a long way since then,” T.S. lied.
“You aren’t going to talk all the way through this one, are
you?”

“I’ll try not to,” Auntie Lil promised.

The movie was a typical big-studio offering.
Loud—very loud—and too quickly edited. Both Auntie Lil and T.S.
felt they were on a runaway train.

The plot involved a group of boys who are mistakenly
sent to a summer boot camp for problem children by uncaring wealthy
parents who think, instead, that their precious sons are attending
a plush resort in the Poconos.