Third Victim (10 page)

“Rory Singer?”

“That’s right. He’s not much of a sleeper. He was going to meet me here and then walk me to work afterwards, but he wasn’t here when I arrived. I guess he was running late.”

Lido and I glanced at each other once again, our exchange stating what we would not verbalize. I turned to Darhansoff before Koufax could pick up on what we were hiding. “You’ve got the stage door area covered with a security camera?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“We’ll want to review the tape as soon as possible,” Lido said.

“We’ll get a crime scene unit down here to examine you and check your dressing room, Mr. Koufax. There’s a possibility your attacker left some fingerprints or DNA behind.”

“I’ve got to make some phone calls,” Koufax said excitedly. “Everyone probably thinks I fell off a cliff.” He gasped. “
Ah
, the chabad—I hope I haven’t been fired.”

It was at times like these that I wished I wasn’t the lead detective and that I could’ve passed the buck to my partner. “Sit down, Mr. Koufax,” I said with understated firmness. “A lot has happened since Sunday.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lido was on the phone, checking on the progress of our warrant, and I was once again behind the wheel.
We’d left Leonard Koufax with the medic and a team of crime scene analysts. I pulled up in front of a Starbucks and was about to get out for something to put in my stomach when Lido hung up. It was about nine and neither of us had eaten anything for dinner.

“Nothing on the warrant yet,” he advised with disappointment.

“Keep trying. You want anything?”

“Not coffee, but if they’ve got something reasonable for me to wolf down …”

“Not in there. Their sandwiches and snacks wouldn’t put a dent in a man-sized appetite like yours.” I checked the stores on the avenue. “There’s a Mexican take-out place down the block. Want a burrito, my brave little hombre?”

“That’ll do the trick. What about you? An empanada for the lady?”

“Mexican food gives me gas.”

“So we’ll ride with the windows open.”

“
Ha!
I just pictured us driving downtown with smoke billowing out of the windows.”

He chuckled. “Seriously? Are we talking about passing a little wind or chemical warfare?”

“Is there a difference?” So farting as a topic of conversation was not particularly ladylike, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to probe the boundaries of our relationship—so far so good. What good is a partner who doesn’t have the conversational range for an occasional fart joke?

“You’re all right, Chalice,” he said with a grin. “You’re one of the boys.”

I don’t know how he can say that after seeing me in my skintight sweater.
My phone buzzed. It was my newly found journalist friend, Hank Green. “Mr. Green,” I began, “you have news?”

“I’ll say,” he blurted. “I thought you’d want to know that the show producers have heard from Rory Singer.”

“What?”

“Apparently he drove up to Silver Hill after the Sunday matinee and checked himself in.”

Silver Hill was a rehab center for the flush of pocketbook. The hallowed celebrity rehab had over the years welcomed the likes of Mariah Carey, Billy Joel, Liza Minnelli, and Billy Joel. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why didn’t he let anyone know? The show? His manager? Someone?”

“Apparently he was a basket case, Detective—burnt out, broken, and on the verge of a mental breakdown. He drove there right after the show and checked himself in. Supposedly he was in such bad shape that they took away his phone, sedated him, and he slept for two days straight.”

I turned to Lido and mouthed, “Are you hearing this?”

He nodded.

I covered the receiver. “Sounds like a load of crap to me.” I thought for a moment before asking, “How did Singer make contact?”

“On his cell phone,” Green replied. “He called the show producers to apologize for missing today’s performance. Apparently he’s going to be out for weeks.”

“Has anyone seen him?”

“Not that I know of.”

“
Uh-huh
. Is there anything else?”

“Only that my story will be on page one.”

I’m so happy for you.
“Thanks for the call, Hank. I’ve got to run.” I disconnected and turned to Lido. “Call the New Canaan police in Connecticut. Tell them we need a quick favor.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

We were on our way to pick up the signed warrant to search Ira Bascom’s apartment and in a damned hurry to do so.

“Turn here,” Lido blurted.

“I don’t think so. It’s faster this way.”

“No, it’s not. Turn!” he insisted.

“Are you sure?”

“I know the city like the back of my hand,” Lido advised. “I’m a regular Ponce de León.”

I smashed the brake and whipped the car around a hairpin turn.

“
Yee-haw!
Your driving is giving me a woodie,” Lido hollered.

“A woodie? Keep it in your pants,
Ponce
.” What I really meant was,
Do you really? I’ll have to remember to drive the car like it was stolen at all times.

Lido’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID. “It’s the New Canaan police.” He hit the
Accept
button and took the call. “This is Gus Lido.”

“Hey, Detective, this is Officer Clarkson with the New Canaan police. My sergeant asked me to take a run over to the Silver Hill Hospital and check on a patient you’re interested in. Rory Singer.”

“That’s correct.”

“He’s not here, Detective.”

“Could he have checked in under another name?” Lido asked.

“Not possible. I asked about that, and all patients have to provide photo ID and insurance information. Sorry, Detective, this was a wild-goose chase. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No. That’s it. Thanks.” Lido disconnected. “You heard?”

“Yeah. I heard it, but I’m not surprised by it. I think Singer’s lying in the morgue with his face smashed to bits.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Who has motive?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I think Ira Bascom knows more than he’s telling us.”

“I think so too, but why did he go out of his way by coming to the morgue with us, trying to establish that John Doe wasn’t Koufax?”

“To divert suspicion, I’d say. He presented himself as helpful and caring so we’d think he was an all right kind of guy. Of course, he was far less hospitable on our second visit, and I’ll bet he’ll be even less cooperative this next time around.”

Lido had been balls-on accurate. His directions had shaved minutes off our travel time. I hit the brakes as we pulled up in front of the courthouse. “I’ll wait here. Grab the warrant and we’ll race across the bridge to Brooklyn. I’ll get on the horn and make some calls.”

“You got it,” Lido said. He was clearly jazzed by the velocity with which the case was accelerating, moving forward like a nitrous-burning dragster. A team was already on site at Bascom’s apartment house, sifting through the recycling bin. Police analysts were studying the theater security tapes. I felt the focus of our investigation narrowing down, and I had a theory as to the killer’s motive, but it was way out there and I wasn’t prepared to commit. My first call would be to Tully. I was going to ask him to run another test on John Doe. I dialed his direct number, hoping that my suspicions were correct and that he’d be in the mood to cooperate.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“GPS is telling me to turn.”

“No. Go straight,” Lido insisted. “Who are you going to listen to, the man who discovered the fountain of youth or a squawking voice that was programmed in a factory in China? I was right last time, wasn’t I?”

Fair enough.
“Go straight?”

“Yeah. Straight, then hang a right at the second light.”

This is great. My new partner has a built-in telemetry system. Cool!
I sped ahead and hung a right turn as instructed.

“Perfect. The apartment house should be a quarter mile up on the right.”

“I’m impressed. You’re one hell of a navigator.”
Now if he’s half as good at finding a woman’s G-spot …

A crime scene technician was walking toward his van. He waved when he saw us and held up a large evidence bag. I recognized the contents, a gallon container of antifreeze. By itself the plastic container meant nothing, but if we found Bascom’s fingerprints on it and were able to match the chemical composition of that brand of antifreeze to the antifreeze that had poisoned John Doe … I was convinced that Bascom was involved in the bombing and murder and was building our court case in my head. There wasn’t yet enough evidence to convince a jury, but we were one step closer to a conviction and I had an ace up my sleeve.

We raced up the stairs. I pounded on Bascom’s door but got no response. “Mr. Bascom, it’s Detectives Chalice and Lido. Open up now!” My request went unanswered, so I pulled out my phone and tried an old trick. I dialed Bascom’s cell phone and put my ear to the door. I heard his cell phone ring immediately. “I know you’re in there, Mr. Bascom. We have a warrant to search your home, so unless you want us to break down the door …”

I heard the security chain being unlatched a moment later and then the doorknob turned. Bascom was wearing a robe. “This isn’t a good time for me,” he said.

Is it ever?

Lido held up the search warrant and smacked it against his open palm. “It just became a good time,” he said authoritatively.

Bascom closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled through his nostrils like an enraged bull. He ultimately stepped aside.

“Let me see that warrant,” Bascom said hotly.

So now what, he’s going to pretend he’s Perry Mason? Actors, they’re all so full of themselves. They actually believe their own bullshit.
I studied his delicate hands as he reached for the warrant.
Bingo. Now it all makes sense.
“Look okay to you?”

He studied the document a moment longer before commenting. “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly. “I hope you’ll leave everything the way you found it.”

Sure, and I’ll get down on my hands and knees and wax the floor before I leave.

Once within, it was obvious that Bascom was not alone. A guest sheepishly appeared at the bedroom door, stuffing his shirt into his slacks. Eli Danziger seemed embarrassed to have been literally caught with his pants down, but I wasn’t all that surprised to see him. I was still playing my cards close to the vest until I was absolutely sure that my theory was airtight.

I moseyed over to the credenza and examined one of Bascom’s small stone carvings. I could’ve picked any of them, but for some reason one particular statuette cried out to me, a carving of a hand holding an erect penis. I turned it over and saw that the sculptor had carved the initials IB into the base.

Lido saw me holding the phallic figurine, and seemed to be more than mildly amused.

“This is your handiwork, Mr. Bascom?”

“Yes. They all are. Does that make me a murderer?”

Perhaps.

“What are you looking for anyway? I had nothing to do with Lenny Koufax’s death.”

“We know that.”

“You
do
?”

“That’s right,” Lido volunteered. “We found Mr. Koufax several hours ago, and we’re happy to report that he’s alive and well.”

Bascom and Danziger exchanged worried glances. They did their best but were unable to hide the exchange from us.

“That’s-that’s great news,” Danziger exclaimed. “Where’d you find Lenny?”

“He was bound, gagged, and locked in his dressing room at the Al Hirschfeld Theater.”

“Huh,” Bascom uttered with surprise. “Imagine that.”

“Apparently someone coldcocked him on Monday morning and left him to rot. I hear that
Pervy Pumps
is fantastic. Either of you two gentlemen see it recently?”

“Too expensive for me,” Danziger replied.

Bascom simply said, “No.” I was still holding the statuette, which didn’t seem to make him too happy. “So then what are you doing here? I take it that Lenny’s fine. What do you need with me?”

“There’s still the matter of the bombing and the murder of John Doe,” Lido said.

“Who’s John Doe?” Danziger asked.

“One of the victims was not killed by the explosion. He was poisoned and had his face smashed in with a blunt hammer to render him unrecognizable before his body was moved to the scene of the bombing.”

“That’s absurd,” Bascom pooh-poohed. “How do you police come up with such utter prattle?”

“Forensics. John Doe’s face was smashed in with a blunt object.” I held out the outrageous statuette to drive home my point. “Perhaps a sculptor’s hammer. One was found in the basement of the chabad, with traces of blood on it. We believe that John Doe is Rory Singer, the stage actor. Are either of you two acquainted with him?”

“I’ve
met
him,” Danziger confessed timidly.

“Quiet, Eli,” Bascom snapped. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? They’re trying to goad us into confessing to the crime. Proletarians,” he huffed. “You want to search my home? Go search, but I’m not saying another word.”

“Fine with us,” I said as I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “This shouldn’t take very long at all. You see, the producers of Singer’s show received a call from him a short time ago in which he said that he had checked himself into a rehab in Connecticut.”

“And?” Bascom snapped.

“We sent someone to the rehab to check, and he’s not there. So someone must’ve called the show producers on Singer’s cell phone pretending to be him—an actor perhaps. All we have to do …” I hit the autodial button and held a hand to my ear. Within moments a cell phone began ringing in the bedroom. I glared at Bascom. “Could that person have been you?”

“Of course not,” Bascom spat.

“Then why, may I ask, is Rory Singer’s cell phone in your bedroom?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“How about a ride, handsome?”