Color Blind (38 page)

M
cKinnon, you are one surprising woman,” said Perlmutter, steering Kate’s Mercedes onto the New York Thruway. Kate was too anxious to drive, and Perlmutter was more than happy to exchange his NYPD Crown Victoria for Kate’s upscale auto.

“I try.”

“What’d you do to Grange?”

“Sorry, my lips are sealed.”

“Bet they weren’t.”

“Don’t be crude. Agent Grange and I have a new understanding, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Perlmutter took his eyes off the road to shoot her a fishy look. “Well, your new beau sent me in his place, and I’m happy to take the ride. So whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Kate peered through the windshield at cars and road signs and wondered what it was she had done to convert Agent Grange.

“The Taconic is a nice route,” said Perlmutter. “And I’m going to drive real slow. Might as well use up as much of the day as possible.” He laid his arm onto the edge of his open window.

Small patches of blue sky were playing peekaboo with gray clouds.

“Brown condoning this little excursion?” Kate asked.

“Absolutely. It was Brown who made the phone call to the warden after he had a chat with your new best friend, Agent Grange. If anything pans out, both he and Grange come out looking good. If not, well, nothing lost, nothing gained.”

Kate had no idea what she might gain or lose, but she needed to know, whatever it was—good news or bad—to get on with her life, if that was possible. She recalled Grange’s instructions about the forthcoming interview: what he was interested in knowing, and what she could trade for it. She’d listened attentively and memorized it all. Now she stared out her side window, trees sliding by, slabs of green as if someone were dragging a squeegee over them.

“Just think of me as your driver.” Perlmutter shot her a smile. “This is a CL 500 Coupe, right?”

“It’s just a car,” said Kate.

“Twenty-four-valve engine. Three hundred and two horsepower at fifty-six hundred rpms.” Perlmutter laid his foot on the accelerator. “A lot more than just a car.”

“How on earth do you know all that?”

“Boy stuff,” said Perlmutter. “By the way, Brown didn’t have to ask me twice. I’ve got a thing for prisons—and I don’t mean a sexual thing, so don’t even go there. I’m into their history.”

“You mean there’s something you know other than movies?”

“Hey, you can’t beat a good prison movie.
The Defiant Ones
—Tony Curtis chained to Sidney Poitier, very interesting possibilities there—
Bird Man of Alcatraz, The Shaw-shank Redemption
.” Perlmutter tapped the steering wheel. “Okay, here’s one for you, and it’s not a movie. Who were the most famous people executed at Sing Sing?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Come on. Give it a shot.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Al Capone?”

“
Al Capone?
No way. Try Julius and Ethel.”

“The Rosenbergs?”

“Fried to a crisp. Here’s another—one of my all-time favorite fun couples, Martha Beck and Raymond Fernandez.”

“Oh, yes. The Lonely Hearts Killers. Made into a B movie, remember?”

“Remember? I own it. Tony LoBianco, Shirley Stoller.”

“Nicky, a mind is terrible thing to waste. On garbage.”

“Garbage?” He exaggerated a sigh. “Sacrilege.”

They drove a while not speaking, then Nicky switched on the radio. It played over the static of police codes, and Perlmutter had no trouble keeping up with Jay Z, rapping along perfectly.

“What are you, like seventeen?”

“I wish,” said Perlmutter.

“Can’t you find something just a bit more…mellow?”

Perlmutter played with the dial, tuned into the middle of an old Dylan song, “Simple Twist of Fate.” “Dylan okay?”

The song reminded her of Richard, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it, but Perlmutter was already singing along and so she said, “Dylan’s fine.”

Dylan.
The photo enlargements of the borders in the killer’s paintings played in her mind, and the names: Dylan, Tony, and Brenda. Who are they, she wondered?

Kate pinched a piece of Nicorette out of the packet and popped it into her mouth.

Soon after the bridge, they cut off the Thruway and headed into the town of Ossining, down Main Street with so many of its historic buildings still intact, a few turns, then headed up a hill and the Sing Sing tower came into view.

“You ever wonder where the name Sing Sing came from?”

Kate nodded, only half listening. Now that she was here she wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it.

“It’s from the Indian,
sin sinck,
which means
stone-upon-stone
. The whole southern part of Ossining, which, by the way was called Sing Sing until the residents wanted to distance themselves from the prison, has these extensive limestone beds.”

“You’re just a font of information, aren’t you?”

“That’s me. What else you want to know? How many people they’ve electrocuted, types of torture they used before prison reform…”

The prison was presenting itself before them, and Perlmutter stopped at the locked gate and showed the guard his ID. For once Kate was glad he was quiet.

I
nside, Kate and Perlmutter were brought into a small square room by a guard who looked Kate over as if she were a piece of lemon meringue pie.

Once he’d left them alone, Perlmutter said, “This is your gig. I’m just here to keep it official.”

Kate nodded, took in the room. Ten by ten, no window, just a small pane of glass in the door, overhead fluorescent flickering, two metal chairs, a
NO SMOKING
sign, which made her exchange her old Nicorette for a new one.

“Quite a habit you got there.”

“Tell me about it. It’s more expensive than cigarettes.”

A moment later the guard brought him in, the old man in Baume’s photograph, wrists and ankles cuffed. “Sit,” he said, then cuffed the man’s feet to the bottom of one of the metal chairs, the one bolted into the cement floor. “I’ll be right outside,” the guard said, throwing Kate a wink.

In person, Charlie D’Amato was smaller than Kate had expected, looked older too, the white hair not so thick, face sagging like a basset hound’s, liver spots dotting his manacled hands, which were gnarled with arthritis.

He glanced at Perlmutter, who was leaning against the wall, staring at his shoes.

“And you are?”

“Detective Perlmutter.” He pulled the
Daily News
from his back pocket, unfolded it, and started to read. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

D’Amato raised his eyebrows, shrugged, then looked Kate over. “Not sure what you think I can tell you about your husband’s murder.”

Kate tried to keep the shock from registering on her face. “So you know why I’m here.”

“Word gets around.” A brittle, sardonic smile cut across his face, and Kate imagined he brought it out when he wanted to make someone feel small. “Let’s just say me and the warden…we understand each other.”

“Good,” said Kate. “That saves me some time.”

“I like that in a woman. No crap.” He bobbed his head toward cigarettes in his breast pocket. “Can you get those for me, sweetheart? I’m a bit tied up at the moment.” He hacked a laugh.

Kate tugged the pack out, placed a Winston between his lips and lit it for him.

D’Amato had some trouble getting the cigarette to and from his mouth, the weight of the irons made every hand movement an effort. He eyed her through the smoke. “You’re about my daughter’s age, Teresa’s her name, lives out in New Brunswick. Jersey, you know? Got a real nice house, couple of kids, one of them almost a teenager, the boy, Charlie. Named after his grandpop. Haven’t seen him in a while.” He smiled a slightly less toxic version of the one before. “You got any kids?”

Kate figured he knew the answer to that too, which was probably why he asked. “Mr. D’Amato. I’ve got limited time here, and—”

“Me?” D’Amato exhaled a plume of smoke. “I got plenty of time.”

“Not the way I hear it,” said Kate. According to Grange, the man was sick. Terminal. But she hadn’t meant her comment to sound so brutal. “Look, if you know why I’m here, then you also know that I must have a few bargaining chits. Why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

Kate offered the man her own version of a knowing smile. “We all want something, Mr. D’Amato.” She dragged the free metal chair over, sat across from the old man.

“Call me Charlie,” he said, donning his grandfatherly persona.

“Let’s not play games, okay, Charlie? You tell me something. And I’ll tell you something. You know how it works. You start.”

D’Amato puffed on his cigarette a moment, blew a couple of lopsided smoke rings into the already stale air. His eyes flitted over toward Perlmutter before he spoke. “Angelo Baldoni killed your husband,” he said. “How’s that for a start?”

It felt like a slap, even though she’d expected it.

Perlmutter eyed Kate, saw that she could handle it. She sounded cool when she asked, “Why?”

“I think it’s my turn, sweetheart.” He leaned forward in the chair and his leg irons clanked. “They won’t let my grandkids see me.”

“I think a visit can be arranged,” she said, recalling that Grange had told her visitation rights were a bargaining tool to use at her discretion.

“In a room, with a guard, not through the glass. I don’t want them to see their old grandpop like that.”

“Okay. I can arrange that. My turn.” She took a deep breath. “Why did Baldoni kill Richard?”

The old man shrugged, bored, or acting it. “He got in the way.”

“In the way of
what
?”

“You should see the cell they’ve got me in, sweetheart. So dark. I get maybe a half hour outside, to see the sun, breathe the air, that’s it, once a day. Unless I go to the doctor, which is no fun, I never get to see anything. I hear they got some cells over on the north side that got windows.”

“And you’d like one of those.”

“Let’s say the idea of it makes me talkative.”

“Maybe I can do that.” The fact was that Grange had already arranged for something better if the man cooperated, but Kate wouldn’t tell D’Amato that, not yet.

“I hate that word
maybe
.”

“I hate games.”

“You’re the one who set the rules, not me.” That brittle, sarcastic smile was back on his thin lips.

“Mr. D’Amato—”

He shook a gnarled finger at her, not easy with the cuffs. “Charlie.”

“Charlie.”

“I’d really like a room with a view. I’m an old man. A dying man. Is that so much to ask?”

He didn’t need the act, which Kate wasn’t buying anyway, but she’d let him play it. “Yes. I believe I can get that for you.”

He smiled, and it appeared genuine. “Your husband was making trouble.”

“What sort of trouble? For who?”

“It makes that much difference to you?”

Kate looked into his rheumy eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay. But only because you remind me of my daughter.” He glanced over at Perlmutter. “Maybe you can wait outside, give me and the young lady some privacy? You can watch through the glass in the door. Just like the guard is doing.”

Perlmutter’s eyes met Kate’s, and she nodded.

D’Amato smiled his saccharine, grandfatherly smile. “That’s better, isn’t it?” he said, after the door had closed behind Perlmutter.

“Go on,” said Kate. “You were telling me what happened—to my husband.”

D’Amato sighed. “That creep, Stokes, he’s your villain, not Angelo Baldoni. Angelo?” He blew air out of the corner of his mouth. “A nothing. A pip-squeak. A
sgarrista,
a common foot soldier, what your television shows call a
made man
. But he was just a stupid kid. He may have pulled the trigger, but it was Stokes who ordered the hit.” D’Amato dropped his cigarette to the floor, tried to step on it but couldn’t lift his cuffed foot to do so. “I’m not saying Angelo was a saint. But it was just a job to him. He didn’t have nothing against your husband.”

Kate’s heart was constricting in her chest. Just a job. To kill her husband.
Just a job.

“A hit’s a hit,” said D’Amato, as if he were talking about the weather. “Baldoni’s uncle, Lombardi, he okayed it because of the favor. He wanted to clean the slate with Stokes, was getting sick of the guy, always giving him money, and the guy snorting up his nose and spending it on hookers. He wanted to finish up the favor. Finito. Ciao. You know? So when Stokes called in the big favor—kill Rothstein—Lombardi figures okay, this will do it, this is it, the last favor. He tells Angelo to do it. Angelo gets creative, hires the schmuck who works for him to do a painting, make it look like your husband was killed by that psycho.”

“And then Baldoni killed him, the artist, Martini, right?”

D’Amato nodded. “Apparently Martini got greedy. Money makes people crazy, you know.” He shrugged. “Stokes was cooking the books at the law firm, getting a lot more than his salary. Your husband, apparently he got wise, and was not only going to fire Stokes, but worse, turn him in to the
authorities
. Stokes went whining to Lombardi, told Lombardi that Rothstein was going to give up some names too, that Rothstein knew who Stokes had been playing with. Got Lombardi all fired up. Wanted to make sure they wanted Rothstein dead too. You know how it is.”

Wanted to make sure they wanted Rothstein dead too. You know how it is.
The words were burning in her ears. But she needed to hear it all, and now that D’Amato had started, he appeared to like talking. Kate nodded for him to continue.

“They deserved each other, Baldoni and Stokes. Angelo says, yeah, he’ll take care of Rothstein, but he wants fifty grand for the job, and Stokes has the balls to say, fine, and skims a little more off the law office books. Ironic, you might say, that it was your husband’s own money that paid for his hit, huh?”

Kate was feeling sick. Andy had ordered Richard’s death, and paid for it with money from Richard’s firm. “How do you know all this?”