Nice Place for a Murder (26 page)

CHAPTER XXVIII

I broke into a run before I fully appreciated what I was doing to my circulatory system. This was not a smart move. I hadn’t gone ten paces before I felt my chest tighten and my breath stick in my throat. No choice, I had to stop, wait. Then take off again with an ungainly quick-walk. Best I could manage.

Ahead of me I saw Wally sprint into the taxi drive-through and head for the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance to the station. He was getting farther ahead of me with every stride, running flat out in pursuit of Sosenko, while I walked as fast my heart would authorize. At this rate, by the time I made it through the station, Sosenko and Wally would be crossing into New Jersey.

I pushed on, desperate that there was still a way I could get close enough to do some good, and longing for the days when I could still manage a run. I remember thinking to myself: Wally is chasing a man who has a gun, and you’re the one who got your friend into this, you pathetic fat-ass.

I saw the cab heading for me as I crossed into the drive-through, but I pressed on, gambling that the driver would show some respect for my middle age and general portliness, and surrender the right of way. In the end he did, but not until he’d stopped inches from me, honking his horn to show he had the moral high ground.  No time to tangle with a cabbie now. I stepped up onto the curb and hurried across the walkway to pull open a door to the station.

Inside, I stopped at the top of the big stairway that descended into the grand concourse, a space the size of a football field, covered by an enormous ceiling that reached to the stars. There were people everywhere I looked, criss-crossing the floor, on stairways, on escalators, standing in ticket lines, heading for their trains, heading for the exits, everywhere. There were a dozen ways into and out of the teeming concourse, and I knew Wally might be chasing Sosenko through any one of them. I stood there looking from one side to the other, trying to take it all in at once, knowing that whichever way they were headed, the distance between them and me was growing even faster than before. But I didn’t see either of them.

I couldn’t just stand there. With no idea which way I should go, I started down the stairs anyway. They had to be in here someplace. I was still on the staircase when the blur of Wally caught my eye. He was the only runner among hundreds of walkers, heading under an archway that led toward the far end of the building toward the Lexington Avenue exit. I set off after him, hearing the labored noise of my own breath hissing in my ears, and feeling my heart jumping against my shirt. 

By the time I struggled to the archway, Wally was gone. Had Sosenko led the chase toward the Lexington Avenue exit and out onto the street? His truck was probably parked in one of the nearby garages, after all. Or wasn’t he thinking about his truck just now?

Then I heard the screams. They were coming from the food market, a long, brightly lit passage that ran inside the station all the way to Lexington Avenue. It was lined on both sides, I knew, with vendors of gourmet foods — seafood, meats, exotic produce, cheeses, baked goods— toothsome viands at fancy prices.

Now, as the screams continued, people began spilling out of the marketplace, fleeing back into the concourse. Holding my hands out in front of me, I bucked the flow of frantic customers, and vendors in white aprons, and made my way just inside the market. A struggle was exploding halfway down the passage.

“Where’s a cop? Get a cop,” I heard someone say.

I felt a pull at my sleeve, and turned to see a tiny, seventy-something woman looking up at me. “Are you going in there?” she said, “Would you get my tuna steak. It’s in a bag on the counter, there, where those two idiots are fighting, with a gun, yet. I’ll be right outside.”

“Can’t,” I said, pulling away from her and heading toward the brawl ahead.

“Twenty-two dollars a pound, it cost,” the woman called after me. “What am I going to serve. I got company coming. Have a heart.” When it became clear I wasn’t going to rescue her fish, she added, “I’ll remember your face forever, you big piece of shit.”

Now the market had emptied, except for me and two men locked in a struggle. Display tables were overturned, and the seafood market’s refrigerator case was smashed, shards of glass sparkling on the fish fillets inside. Wrapped wedges of cheese from the cheese monger littered the floor, along with picture-perfect pineapples and grapefruit from the greengrocer across the passage. I saw what could have been grandma’s bag of tuna steak on the floor, too. Someone had stepped on it.

Wally must have been getting too close. Faced with my friend’s speed and tenacity, Sosenko’s only option was to stop and make a stand — pull the rifle out of his portfolio case and put an end to his pursuer. But Wally was on top of him before he could work the bolt and fire. Now both of them had hold of the gun, shoving and stumbling, smashing into displays of food. Sosenko was growling like an animal.

I reached under my jacket and pulled my gun out of its holster.

A cop came through the door at the Lexington Avenue end of the market, and started toward us.  “The one with the tattoos is a killer,” I shouted at him. I saw the cop go for his gun.

It’s amazing how much can happen in less than five seconds. Sosenko pulled the butt end of the rifle down, then brought it up sharply against Wally’s face. Stunned, Wally released his hold on the gun and fell heavily against a shelf piled with vegetables, then slid to the floor, blood running down his chin..

Sosenko racked the bolt and made ready to fire at Wally.  The cop had his pistol in his hand, but was still twenty yards away.

I screamed something at Sosenko, and raised my .38. Recognizing that I was the most immediate threat, he swung the rifle around from Wally to me.

I fired only once, catching him squarely in the chest. The rifle dropped out of his hands. He fell instantly to his knees, then toppled onto his side.

I set my gun down on the floor, so the cop wouldn’t get the wrong idea. I knelt next to Sosenko and looked into that primordial face of his. He didn’t die all at once. His eyes were open and he was working his lips. He was getting ready to spit at me, the only fight he had left in him.

But he crossed over before he could let the spittle fly.  

CHAPTER XXIX

I waited until I was on the ferry, watching Greenport grow smaller off the stern as we made our way to Shelter Island, before I called Roger Teague on my cell phone. I wanted him to know I’d been up all night. I wanted him to know I had to face a hearing in New York, but after talking with me until four in the morning, the cops appeared willing to accept the Sosenko shooting as self defense, and let me loose for the time being. I especially wanted him to know I was on my way to deal with Ingo Julian, a confrontation Teague would fear, but had no way to stop. The idea of a face-off between me and Ingo was certain to drive him wild, and he’d earned some aggravation.

Teague did not disappoint.  “What the hell you going to Shelter for?” he said on the phone, much louder than was necessary. “This thing is over.”

“Not quite,” I told him. “I feel a real need to share some ideas with Ingo.”

“
Share? Ideas?
” It sounded filthy the way he said it. “About what?”

“This whole business is not what you think it is,” I told him. “We’ve been jerked around royally by Ingo and by Brody, too. They used us. Me, you, Empire.”

“So they used us. That’s what they pay us for, to use us.” Then, “How did they use us?”

I boiled the story down into two precisely worded minutes, ignoring Teague several times as he tried to interrupt me. When I finished, I could hear his heavy breathing mixed with a few unintelligible syllables as he gathered his wits to respond.

What came out, finally, was, “Some wild-ass story, Seidenberg. But can you prove it? Can anybody prove it? And so what, anyway?”

“No solid proof,” I said. “But I know it doesn’t matter to you. Great moralist that you are, you don’t care if it’s true or not.”

“What does it matter what I believe,” he said. “It’s what they think that counts. Julian Communications pays the bills we send them. We just do our job.“

“Seems to me
I
do our job,” I corrected him.

“An ex-con with a grudge against Julian Communications tries to get even, kills two of their suits. Tragic, right? We find the guy and take him out. Job finished. Why piss off Ingo Julian now with some story you can’t prove, anyway?”

“Don’t forget Brody,” I said. “I already pissed Brody off.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“He won’t complain. I did prevent him from being murdered outside the Yale Club yesterday. That ought to be worth something. And so far as Ingo is concerned, I doubt that he would dare dump Empire, no matter what I say to him this morning. He’ll know we’re onto the game of killer-take-all he and Brody have been playing. I’m sure he’d rather we keep it to ourselves, even if we can’t prove it.”

“We need Julian Communications. We don’t need you fucking up the relationship. Just what are you trying to accomplish?” he said.

In my mind’s eye I could see the anger distorting Teague’s face as he spoke, that way he had of looking like an over-inflated balloon ready to pop. I could go on and give him all my good reasons for having it out with Ingo, but I was saving that speech for Ingo himself. Anyway, I knew the surest way to infuriate Roger Teague now that I had lured him into the truth of this bizarre story would be to shut him off. Which I did, just as the boat bumped its way into the ferry slip. “We’re at Shelter. Got to go,” I said into the phone, then rang off before he could respond.

Ingo and Lisa Harper were in their Park Avenue business attire and about to head for the car when I arrived at the house on Shelter Island. Ingo’s custom-made suit did little to compensate for the warped posture and odd gait that dominated his appearance. He seemed a well-dressed, oversize gnome, covered with scars and discolorations. What had he looked like, I wondered, before the accident?

“We’re about to leave for New York,” he said. “But I’m pleased to see you. Come sit a moment, yes?” He led the way into the great room and we took seats. “I heard what happened yesterday at Grand Central. It’s a relief to know we don’t have to worry about that Sosenko animal any more. You’re a courageous man, Seidenberg. Good job. We won’t forget it.”

“I should hope not,” I said.

Lisa leaned forward on the sofa with her elbows on her knees, as a man would do. “Yes, good job. I think I told you once I wondered if you were as good as Hector told us you were. It seems you are.”

“I’m sure that was meant to flatter me,” I said to her.  “But actually, I’m much better than you think.”

Her smile was part amused, part puzzled. “Don’t be modest, Seidenberg.”

“And how good are you, then?” Ingo said.

“Good enough to know when I’m being manipulated. Good enough to understand, finally, that you never told me the truth behind this business with Sosenko.” It seemed a good time to pause and let it sink in, let them come to realize they hadn’t pulled it off. Not quite.

They both looked at me in silence, trying, I thought, not to betray any doubt or vulnerability. Not that I cared. I stood and made my way to the white marble bar, which glowed in the morning sun streaming through the sliding glass doors to the balcony. “Would it trouble you if I made myself a drink?”

“At nine thirty in the morning?” said Ingo.

“Not morning for me. As I haven’t been to sleep, it’s still very, very late at night. I’m sure you understand my need for a potent adult beverage,” I said. “Been under a lot of stress. Need to loosen up.”

“Help yourself, by all means,” he told me.

Moving deliberately, I sought out a decent scotch blend behind the bar. Not finding any, I took the Glenfiddich and poured myself a gentleman’s portion, as opposed to a child’s portion, inspected my drink in the rays of the sun, and had a healthy swallow.

“Let me save you this awkward little drama, Seidenberg,” Ingo said, after watching me savor his high-priced whiskey. “To begin with, I’m relieved you no longer think I’m really Felix.” 

“No, you are indeed Ingo Julian. Felix went to his reward a long time ago. My error. But you must admit I wasn’t all that far from the truth.”

”You mean this fantasy of yours about Arthur Brody mistaking me for my brother in the hospital, and proposing a devil’s bargain? Brody told me about it.”

“You actually spoke to Brody? You two have kissed and made up, then?”

“That’s an overstatement, I think. Let’s say we have finally agreed to set our differences aside in the best interests of the company.”

“What are those differences you’re setting aside, Ingo? No one ever knew for sure.” I paced across the room and looked down at Lisa, who sat there on the couch.  “Except you, maybe.” She made no response.

“A personal thing,” Ingo said. “Nothing to do with you.”

“Yes, personal,” I said. “Was it because you told him you’d had enough of him, that you were dumping him after the IPO? You’d let him get rich on the stock, but he wasn’t going to be the celebrated president of Julian Communications any more. Problem was, the power meant even more to him than the money. He liked that corner office. He’d sooner have you killed than let you fire him.”