The Last Dance (31 page)

Out of deference to his foreign status, they sat him down in the lieutenant's office, which was more comfortable than the interrogation room, and offered him some of Miscolo's coffee, or a cup of tea, if that was his preference. In response, he affected his Eyes Wide Open, Eyebrows Raised, Lips Pursed in Indignation look again, and told them there was no need to presume stereotypical behavior, in that he rarely drank tea and in fact much preferred coffee as his beverage of preference, redundantly sounding exactly like the sort of Englishman he was trying
not
to sound like.

“So tell us, Mr. Palmer,” Carella said. “Do you know anyone named John Bridges?”

“No. Who is he?”

“We think he may have killed Andrew Hale.”

“I'm sorry, am I supposed to know who Andrew Hale is?”

“You're supposed to know only what you know,” Carella said.

“Ah, brilliant,” Palmer said.

“He's from Euston.”

“Andrew Hale?”

“John Bridges. Do you know where Euston is?”

“Of course I do.”

“Know anyone from Euston?”

“No.”

“Or King's Cross?”

“Those aren't neighborhoods I ordinarily frequent,” Palmer said.

“Know any Jamaicans in London?”

“No.”

“When did you first learn Andrew Hale was being difficult?”

“I don't know anyone named Andrew Hale.”

“He's Cynthia Keating's father. Did you know he once owned the underlying rights to
Jenny's Room?
”

“I don't know anything about him or any rights he may have owned.”

“No one ever informed you of that?”

“Not a soul.”

“Then you're learning it for the first time this very minute, is that right?”

“Well … no. Not precisely this very minute.”

“Then you knew it before now.”

“Yes, I suppose I did. Come to think of it.”

“When
did
you learn about it?”

“I really can't remember.”

“Would it have been before October twenty-ninth?”

“Who can remember such a long time ago?”

“Do you remember
how
you learned about it?”

“I probably read it in a newspaper.”

“Which newspaper, do you recall?”

“I'm sorry, I don't.”

“Do you remember when that might have been?”

“I'm sorry, no.”

“Was it a British newspaper?”

“Oh, I'm certain not.”

“Then it was an American paper, is that right?”

“I really don't know what sort of paper it was. It might have been British, I'm sure I don't know.”

“But you said it wasn't.”

“Yes, but I really don't remember.”

“How well do you know Cynthia Keating?”

“Hardly at all. We met for the first time a week ago.”

“Where was that?”

“At Connie's party.”

“The Meet 'N' Greet?”

“Why, yes.”

“Never talked to her before then?”

“Never. Am I supposed to have spoken to her?”

“We were just wondering.”

“Oh? About what?”

“About when you first spoke to her.”

“I told you …”

“You see, after we learned Mr. Bridges was from London …”

“Big city, you realize.”

“Yes, we know that.”

“If you're suggesting he and I might have known each other, that is.”

“But you said you didn't.”

“That's right. I'm saying the population is even larger than it is here. So if you're suggesting I might have known a
Jamaican,
no less, from Euston or King's Cross …”

“But you don't.”

“That's right.”

“And you never met Cynthia Keating, either …”

“Well, not until …”

“The party at Connie Lindstrom's, right.”

“That's correct.”

“Never even spoke to her before then.”

“Never.”

“Which is what made us wonder. When we were going over our notes. After we learned Mr. Bridges …”

“Oh, you take notes, do you? How clever.”

“Mr. Palmer,” Carella said, “it might go better for you if you stopped being such a wise ass.”

“I didn't realize it was going
badly,”
Palmer said, and raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide and smiled impishly. “I was merely trying to point out that scads of people are from London, that's all.”

“Yes, but not all of them are linked to Cynthia Keating's father.”

“I never met Andrew Hale in my life. And I'm certainly not
linked
to him, as you're suggesting.”

“Mr. Palmer,” Carella said, “how did you know Martha Cole-ridge wanted a hundred thousand dollars from each of you?”

The blue eyes went wide again. The eyebrows arched. The lips pursed.

“Well … let me think,” he said.

They waited.

“Mr. Palmer?” Carella said.

“Someone must have told me.”

“Yes, who?”

“I can't remember.”

“You didn't talk to Miss Coleridge herself, did you?”

“Of
course
not. I never even
met
the woman!”

“Then who told you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Was it Cynthia Keating?”

Palmer did not answer.

“Mr. Palmer? It was Cynthia Keating, wasn't it?”

He still said nothing.

“Did she also tell you her
father
owned the underlying rights to the play?”

Palmer folded his arms across his chest.

“And was refusing to part with them?”

Palmer's look said his carriage had just run over an urchin in the cobbled streets and he was ordering his coachman to move on regardless.

“I guess that's it, huh?” Carella said.

Palmer took an enameled snuff box from the pocket of his brocaded waistcoat, disdainfully opened the box, and sniffed a pinch of snuff into each nostril.

Or so it seemed to the assembled flatfoots.

They called Nellie Brand and spelled out what they thought they had. At the very least, they figured they were cool with conspiracy to commit first-degree murder. Nellie advised them to pick up Cynthia Keating and bring her in. She herself got there in half an hour. It was seven thirty-five on the face of the squadroom clock, and it was still snowing outside.

They brought Cynthia in ten minutes later. Todd Alexander came to the party at ten past eight. He promptly informed them that his client would not answer any questions and he warned them that unless they charged her with something at
once
she was marching right out of there.

It now remained to see who would blink first.

“I wouldn't be so hasty, Todd,” Nellie said, “You stand to make a lot of money here.”

“Oh? How do you figure that?”

“I plan to consolidate the two murders. This'll be a very long trial. I hope your client has a gazillion dollars.”

“Which two murders are you talking about?” Alexander asked.

“First off, the murder for hire of Mrs. Keating's father …”

“Oh, I see, murder for hire.” He turned to Cynthia and said, “Murder for hire is first-degree murder.”

“Tell her what she's looking at, Todd.”

“Why waste my breath? Is that what you're charging her with? Murder One? If so, do it.”

“What's your hurry? Don't you want to hear me out? I can save your life,” Nellie said, turning to Cynthia. “I can also save you a lot of money.”

“Thanks,” Cynthia said, “but my life's not in danger …”

“Don't kid your …”

“… and I'll be rich once
Jenny's …”

“The penalty for Murder One is lethal injection,” Nellie said. “I'm offering you a real bargain discount.”

“What exactly do you think you have?” Alexander asked.

“I've got an old man standing in the way of what your client perceives as a fortune. I've got a bird brain in London who looks at it the same way. The two conspire to …”

“Mrs. Keating and somebody in
London,
are you saying?”

“A
specific
somebody named Gerald Palmer. Who also stands to make a fortune if this show is a hit.”

“And they conspired to kill Mrs. Keating's
father,
are you saying?”

“That's our surmise, Todd.”

“A wild one.”

“The Brits have been known,” Nellie said.

“Sure, Richard the Second.”

“Even more recently.”

“You're saying …”

“I'm saying the pair of them found a Jamaican hit man named John Bridges, brought him here to America …”

“Oh, please, Nellie.”

“The Metropolitan Police are checking his pedigree this very minute. Once they get back to us …”

“Ah, Sherlock Holmes now.”

“No, just a detective named Frank Beaton.”

“This is all nonsense,” Cynthia said.

“Fine, take your chances,” Nellie said.

“What do you want from her?”

“Her partner and the hit man.”

“That's everybody.”

“No, that's only two people.”

“What do you give her in return?”

“Is this
me
you're talking about?” Cynthia asked.

“Just a second, Cyn,” Alexander said.

“Never mind just a second. If she had anything, she wouldn't be trying to strike a deal here.”

“You think so, huh?” Nellie said.

“What can you give us?” Alexander asked.

“She rats them out, I drop the charge to Murder Two. Twenty to life as opposed to the Valium cocktail.”

“Go to fifteen,” Alexander said.

“Twenty. With a recommendation for parole.”

“Come on, at least give me the minimum.”

“Fifteen can come and go without parole,” Nellie said. “And then twenty, and thirty, and forty, and still no parole. Before you know it, your lady's in there for the rest of her life. Take my advice. Twenty with a recommendation.”

“She'd be
sixty
when she got out!”

“Fifty-seven,” Cynthia corrected.

But she was thinking.

“On the other hand, you can always roll the dice. Just remember, you're looking at the death penalty. You'll sit on death row for five, six years while you exhaust all your appeals—and that'll be it.”

“Recommend parole after fifteen,” Alexander said.

“I can't do that.”

“Twenty just isn't sweet enough.”

“How sweet is the cocktail?” Nellie asked.

IT IS
Palmer who makes the first contact, toward the end of September.

He tells Cynthia on the telephone that he's had a transatlantic call from Norman Zimmer, who's producing a musical based on
Jenny's Room,
is she familiar with …?

“Yes, he's been in touch,” Cynthia says.

“I hate to bother you this way,” he says, “but from what I understand, the project may be stalled because of your father's intransigence.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It does seem a shame, doesn't it?” he says. “All these people who'd stand to earn a little money.”

“I know,” Cynthia says.

“Couldn't you talk with him?”

“I have,” she says. “He won't budge.”

“It does seem a pity.”

“He's protecting Jessica, you see.”

“Who's that?”

“Jessica Miles. The woman who wrote the original play. He feels she wouldn't have wanted the musical done again.”

“Really? Why's that?”

“Because it was so awful.”

“Oh, I don't think so, do
you?
I've read my grandfather's book, and I've also heard the songs. It's really quite good, you know. Besides, they're having new songs written, and a new book, and—well, it's truly a shame. Because I think it has a really good shot, you know. I think we can all become quite rich, actually. If it's done.”

There is a crackling on the line.

She tries to visualize London. She has never been there. She imagines chimney pots and cobblestoned streets. She imagines men with soot-stained collars and women in long hour-glass gowns. She imagines Big Ben chiming the hour, regattas on the Thames. She imagines all these things. And imagines going there one day.

“Couldn't you please talk with him again?” Palmer says.

It is she who makes the next call, sometime early in October. He has just come home from work, it is seven o'clock there in London, only two in the afternoon here in America. He tells her he works for “the last of the publishers in Bedford Square,” a line she surmises he has used often before. In fact, there is something about the way he speaks that makes everything sound studied and prepared, as if he has learned a part and is merely acting it. A lack of spontaneity, she supposes, something that makes whatever he says seem artificial and rehearsed, as if there is nothing of substance behind the words.

“Have you seen him again?” he asks.

“Several times,” she says.

“And?”

“Dead end.”

“Mmm.”

“He won't listen to reason. He says the play is a sacred trust …”

“Nonsense.”

“It's what he believes.”

“She must have written it in the year dot.”

“Nineteen twenty-three.”

“Norman tells me it's bloody awful.”

“My father thinks it's simply
wonderful.”

“Well, as the old maid said when she kissed the cow …”

“It's a shame this had to come along just
now,
though. The opportunity, I mean. To have the musical revived.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well … ten
years
from now would have been so much better.”