Caper (12 page)

This was not good. This was never good. I've read hundreds of mysteries, and when the door swings open there's always a dead body on the other side.

I knew that couldn't be in this case, the congressman was there, the congressman was alive, I'd called and his phone was busy. So there had to be another explanation. He was expecting someone so he left the door open. He hadn't answered the bell because he was in the john. Or he was in the bedroom with the TV on loud and couldn't hear it. Or he was on the phone and couldn't come to the door. Or maybe he didn't mean to leave the door open, he just didn't shut it all the way, that happens to me a lot in my apartment, the little whoozit doesn't engage and it's still open.

For whatever reason, I'd just solved my number one problem. How I was going to get in the door.

I pushed the door open and walked in, then closed, but didn't latch it behind me, in case he had left it open for someone.

I found myself in a rather sumptuous foyer with a bench, an umbrella stand, a coatrack, and two closet doors. There was a painting on the wall in front of me, though whether real or a copy I couldn't say. I tiptoed in, poked my head around the corner.

Inside was a spacious living room, with couches, coffee tables, a bar, and a grand piano.

“Mr. Blake?” I called. “Congressman?”

There was no answer.

I walked into the room and stopped dead.

There was a fireplace against the side wall. The congressman lay on the hearth. A poker from the fireplace lay next to him.

If it didn't match the gash in the back of his head, I'd have been quite surprised.

24

O
H, MY
G
OD.

All my worst fears realized. Here's the dead body I was worried about. It happens to be the one person who could have helped me, but that's rather minor now.

Okay, so what could I do? I knew I should call the police, but what would I tell 'em? I was in a very embarrassing position, having tricked my way into the building. It wouldn't take much to make me the number one suspect. Throw in my history with the congressman and I'd look good, even to me.

So, what if I ran? Hightailed it the hell out of there? It would be a while before the body was found. By then I'd be long gone. True, if the cops picked me up and showed me to the doorman, I'd be dead meat, but why would they do that?

Because he'd tell them about the delivery man.

No, he wouldn't. The delivery wasn't to the congressman. It was to Mrs. Finnegan. Why the hell would he even think of it? He sent a delivery man up to Mrs. Finnegan. The delivery man went up to Mrs. Finnegan. She got her flowers, I got my tip. All I had to do was walk through the lobby folding the bills and putting them in my pocket, and the doorman would smirk and forget me. By the time the body was found there wouldn't be any reason to remember a routine flower delivery to another apartment.

Unless the cops connected me with the congressman from the nightclub, and checked up just in case. But would they put me in a lineup for the doorman just on the off chance? Why should they? No one came to see the congressman.

Except the person who killed him. The doorman would be bound to mention them.

But only if the cops knew the time of death. Well, not only, but much more likely. If the cops knew when he died, the person who was with him then would be in the soup.

If they didn't, whoever found the body could get blamed. Which would totally screw things up. Even if the cops knew that person didn't do it, whoever found the body would be a whacking good reasonable doubt for the defense attorney to throw at the jury once the cops charged the real killer. Could you say
the real killer
these days? Has it been enough time? Or would folks still think of O.J.?

Jesus Christ, should I call the cops?

It occurred to me that as long as I was doing my Hamlet impression—to flee, or not to flee—I might as well do something useful.

I searched the body.

The congressman was wearing a lightweight sports jacket. I checked the pockets. I don't know what I was looking for. Maybe a list of names conveniently titled: CAMPAIGN CONTRIBUTORS. There was no such list.

I took out the congressman's wallet. Inside were his driver's license, registration, credit cards, and two hundred and sixty-two dollars in cash. I didn't steal it. I stuck the wallet back in the congressman's hip pocket.

It was all wrong. This was the part where the private eye was supposed to find a clue that didn't mean anything now but would eventually tie in with something completely unrelated and lead to unmasking the killer.

I found diddly-squat.

I'd been stupid long enough. It was time for option B. Which was stupider still.

I stood up, yanked the handkerchief out of my pocket, polished anything I might have touched, from the wallet to the knob on the front door. I closed it behind me but left the latch unengaged, just the way I'd found it.

I slipped into the stairwell, went down to 8, in case the doorman watched what floors the elevator stopped on. Hoped he wouldn't notice how long I'd been there.

He did.

As I came through the lobby, making a show of shoving the tip in my pocket, he gave me more than a casual smirk. I was so rattled that it took me a moment to get it. He figured I'd had a matinee with Mrs. Finnegan. I felt bad if I'd sullied her reputation. I wondered if I should send her some flowers.

The doorman seemed inclined to chat. Luckily, a guy came in just then, and I slipped away while the doorman dealt with him.

I went out to the street, hunted up a pay phone. Not as easy as it used to be. Now that everyone has a cell phone, who needs 'em? I had to walk four blocks to find one that worked.

I dropped in a quarter, called 911.

The phone asked for fifty cents.

I cursed it, dug in my pocket for another quarter.

At least they answered right away. “What is your emergency?”

“I want to report a break-in at 521 Fifth Avenue, apartment 12B. The intruder was armed, and there may be injuries.”

“And who are you?”

I hung up, went back to my car.

The meter had run out, but I hadn't gotten a ticket. Small consolation. I'd still blown thirty bucks for flowers.

That and finding a dead body made it a pretty bad day.

25

W
ENDY WAS SURPRISED TO SEE ME.
T
HAT
'
S
R
ICHARD
'
S
secretary, Wendy, one half of the Wendy/Janet team. I can tell 'em apart in person. In fact, they don't look at all alike. It's just their voices I can't distinguish.

“What are you doing here?” Wendy said. “I thought you were off the clock.”

“I am.”

“I don't understand. Haven't you turned in all your cases?”

“Yes.”

“And we mail you your checks.”

“I came to see Richard.”

“He's rather busy. Preparing for court.”

“Just tell him I'm here.”

“I hate to disturb him.”

“I'll make sure he knows it wasn't your fault.”

“How you gonna do that if he won't see you?”

Wendy/Janet had the IQ of a badly pruned parsnip, but it was all directed toward self-preservation. If either of them expended as much energy toward doing their jobs as they did toward trying to keep them, they'd be ten times as competent.

“Fine. Don't tell Richard I want to see him. Just give him a message. Tell him MacAullif gave me
his
message, and I'm complying with it to the letter.”

She sighed, picked up the phone, relayed my message.

Moments later, Richard flung open the door. “Stanley. Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“You're not just yanking my chain?”

“Would I do that?”

“Or pissing me off with some technically correct interpretation of what I said?”

I shook my head. “Nope. It's the real deal.”

“Come in.”

Richard ushered me into his inner office, shut the door on Wendy's eavesdropping ears.

I brought him up to speed on the congressman's demise.

Richard was incredulous. “You found the body and left it?”

“If I'd reported it, I'd be calling you from the police station.”

“Yeah, but the charges would be less. We wouldn't have compounding a felony and conspiring to conceal a crime.”

“We'd still have murder,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but I can probably get you off on murder. The other charges are more difficult, since you're actually guilty.”

“That's a rather negative attitude, Richard.”

“So, why are you here? I said murder, not obstruction of justice.”

“It's a murder.”

“You're not accused of it.”

“Well, I will be, if the police find out. Isn't that good enough?”

“No. It's absolutely horrible. You left the scene of the crime. Flight is an indication of guilt. I don't want a murder case I can't win. Where's the fun in that?”

“You're giving up? You can't get me off? You want me to hire another lawyer?”

“Another lawyer won't work for you. Lawyers have licenses. Some of them have ethics. None of them wants to mess with the Bar Association. Which is where a lawyer for you is apt to wind up. I'm the only one stupid enough to mess around with you, and that's just because I'm such a softie.”

“I know, I know. You're a prince. So what do I do?”

“All right. How bad is it? Let's see. The doorman can identify you as going into the building, but not to that floor. Did he have any reason to remember you particularly?”

“He thought I was shtupping Mrs. Finnegan.”

“The doorman's Jewish?”

“He's Hispanic.”

“And he thought you were doing the tenant? Okay, that's a reason to remember you. When they can't find anyone else who went to the apartment, they'll come up with that.”

“But they have to find someone who went to that apartment.”

“Why?”

“Because someone killed him.”

“You mean besides you.”

“I didn't kill him.”

“I never thought you did. The police may feel differently.”

“That doesn't mean they'll stop looking for someone else.”

“I suppose,” Richard said.

“You're not convinced.”

“Well, think about it. If the cops pick you for this, it's because they got a lead from the doorman. If the doorman fingers you as going up, it's because he couldn't name anybody else. Because anybody
known
to be going to the congressman's apartment would be such a better suspect, they wouldn't even be looking for you.”

I frowned.

“That doesn't make sense?”

“No. It does.”

“You better pray the cops solve this damn thing. That's your only hope now. That the police figure out who did it before they decide it's you.”

“And if they don't?”

“Then
you
better figure out who did it.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“Oh, I don't know. I'm just the lawyer on the case. You're the detective.”

“Basically, you'd like me to solve the case so you don't have to do any work.”

“My inclination to work is directly proportional to the size of the retainer. How much are you paying me, again?”

“Never mind.” I shook my head. “So, as my attorney, would you advise me to turn myself in?”

“Not unless you have a death wish.”

The phone rang.

Richard scooped it up. “Not now, Wendy. Hold my calls.” Which should have done it. Wendy doesn't argue with Richard. Only this time he said, “What? … Really? … Okay, I'll tell him.”

Richard hung up the phone. “You can forget what I said about contacting the cops.”

“Oh? Why?”

“MacAullif wants to see you.”

26

M
AC
A
ULLIF TOOK OUT A CIGAR.
A
FTER A MOMENT, HE TOOK
out another. He left them on the desk, prominently displayed in an ominous position. He looked at me, cocked his head. “So?”

“So, what?”

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“It's your party, MacAullif. You tell me.”

MacAullif picked up one of the cigars. “That phone number I gave you.”

“What about it?”

“Was that any use to you?”

“Yes. I was gonna thank you. You didn't have to drag me in here.”

“So it
was
of use. Just
how
was it of use?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping to get an answer. I
intend
to get an answer. If I
don't
get an answer, it will not be pleasant.”

“Well, we wouldn't want that. You gave me the number, I called the congressman.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. I got a busy signal.”

“Your call never went through?”

“That's right.”

“You didn't call him back?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn't think of anything I wanted to say.”

“Then why did you call him in the first place?”

“It would have been inconsiderate not to after you went and looked up the number.”

MacAullif twirled the cigar between his fingers like a baton. He wasn't good at it. You'd think after years of trying he'd be better.

“You see what's happening here?” MacAullif said. “I'm giving you an opportunity to volunteer information. You're not doing it. This is using up a great deal of your credibility with the police in general and me in particular.”

“I got all that. Even without your explanation.”

“So, you got anything you want to tell me?”

“Not particularly.”