It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 20
Cassie pulled her Mustang off the road and cried. She cried for Rob and for herself. She cried for Morris. She even cried for Teddy Maciborski and Louis Feldman. Ella sang and Cassie cried.
And then her cell phone rang.
"Hi Cassie. It's me."
"Morris! Where are you? How did things go with Detective Bebedict?" Cassie pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes.
"I haven't gone to the police station yet."
"Morris, what . . ."
"Cassie, listen to me. I figured out where I know the busboy from."
"You're just avoiding, Morris. Forget about the busboy and go see the detective."
"No, Cassie, I think this could be important."
Cassie didn't have the energy to argue. Perhaps if she let Morris finish . . ." Okay. Morris, I'm listening. How do you know the busboy?"
Morris saw the scene so clearly, he couldn't understand why he didn't remember this sooner. "The first time I went to the pawnshop, the busboy was there."
"In the pawnshop?" asked Cassie. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure, Cassie. Louie told me the boy was there making a delivery for his father."
Cassie said nothing.
"Cassie, did you hear me?"
Still, she said nothing.
"Are you there Cassie?"
There were no fingerprints on the knife. "Listen to me, Morris. Go find Detective Bebedict. Tell him to meet me at the mall. Tell him I know who the killer is!"
A Free Man has Choices
Since the death of his father, Little Mack had been sleeping poorly, plagued by disquieting dreams, images so startling they nearly hurtled him from bed. He wasn't sure which was worse, the dreams, or the lying in bed awake in the middle of the night, bathed in a pool of cold sweat. The youngest of four boys, Augie's brothers were all dead before Little Mack turned twenty. He was so young when his sainted mother passed on, he only remembered her from family photos. And now, his father was gone. Little Mack was the last of a once proud family. During all his waking moments, Little Mack was suffocating in his solitude. Sleep was worse. Little Mack's sleep teemed with deceased Maciborskis. Little Mack needed no expert to interpret his dreams. It was clear. It was a simple matter of honor. And Little Mack had put it off too long already. The dreams would end when he fulfilled his obligations.
That morning, Little Mack looked in the mirror, ashamed that he had even allowed his grooming to slip in just two weeks. He retrieved his father's straight razor and stropped the blade until it sparkled. He opened the ancient tin of shaving soap, mixing up a creamy lather that could otherwise be found only in a few select barbershops in New York. He soaked his face in water so unbearably hot, he wanted desperately to scream, but not a sound escaped. He looked in the mirror and was a teenage boy again, his father standing at his side, showing him how to use the straight razor. "Safety razors are for girls," Big Mack always said.
Little Mack looked in the mirror, pleased with the results. "Safety razors are for girls," he echoed proudly. He was in no hurry. Little Mack selected a freshly starched white shirt with a spread collar, his jet-black suit, and a red silk tie. His shoes were shined, but not to the Maciborski standard. Little Mack found the cloth and brush and worked the leather until his shoes looked like black glass.
The Lincoln Town Car was dirty. Little Mack briefly considered washing the Lincoln, but he knew it was impractical this morning. The inside of the car, thankfully, was spotless.
He made one stop, en route, for an espresso and the morning paper. He read the front page and skimmed the business news. He checked the sports section for injury reports and compared the lines on Sunday's games. He tipped the kid in Starbucks more than the cost of the espresso. He could put this off no longer. It was time.
Cassie hung up her cell phone. Her Christmas cry would have to wait. She was counting on Morris to send Detective Bebedict to the mall, but she was not going to wait for him. Cassie pulled her Mustang onto the road and, without regard for the posted speed limit, made haste to the Mall of New Jersey.
With just two shopping days left until Christmas, the parking lot had more cars than pavement. There were cars parked in every legal spot, in the fire lanes, on the pedestrian walkways. Cars were simply abandoned on the exit and entrance ramps. Cassie found a vacant spot of dirt nearly half a mile from the doors and counted herself one of the lucky ones. She locked the Mustang and made her way through the car maze that filled the space between her and the mall itself.
Inside was even worse, the mall filled to overflowing with holiday shoppers and all of them were sprinting through the mall. There was no time for these shoppers to relax. No way to enjoy the experience. Just run from store to store, grabbing items from the half-empty bins. No thinking, no comparing, no considering, just grab and go shopping. Merry Christmas, indeed.
Cassie made her way through the mall, careful to avoid blocking the path of rampaging shoppers, arriving safely at the food court. Her customary spot at the edge of the food court was occupied. In fact, every table, every chair in the food court was occupied. Shoppers walked around with their food, circling the food court, looking for a seat, eating even as they walked, antsy to finish and get back into the fray. Cassie found a spot where she might stand at the railing, leaning against a pillar, with a clear view of the vestibule below and Santa's Workshop.
Santa's Workshop made the rest of the mall seem like a leisurely stroll in the park. Children were everywhere, on line and off, swarming around the North Pole, climbing on the giant candy canes, eager to deliver their last minute Christmas lists. Elves worked overtime on crowd control as parents surrendered even the pretense of responsible adult supervision. And amidst it all, in the middle of this frenzy of holiday activity, sat Santa Claus, the eye of the holiday storm.
To Cassie's practiced eye, he seemed to be having fun. Santa was bouncing kids on his large red knees. He was listening to their urgent requests and laughing at their jokes. When a little girl nearly peed in his lap, Santa merely smiled and sent her to the ladies room in the company of Mrs. Claus. When she returned, Santa made sure the youngster was ushered to the very front of the line.
Cassie wondered if she could be wrong.
Oliver walked out of the station house into freedom's bright sunlight. He did not shade his eyes, blinking after his lengthy incarceration. One night in lock-up had changed him, or so Oliver believed. He had spent the night imagining what he would do if he ever escaped incarceration, but now that freedom was at hand, Oliver didn't know what to do first. He stopped at the convenience store for a cup of orange pekoe tea with lemon and a Hostess Twinkie, his first meal as a free man. It was, he told himself, the best Twinkie he had ever tasted. The cream was creamier; the cake cakier. He savored the Twinkie, silently thanking Hostess for packaging Twinkies in pairs, for the twin Twinkie that waited patiently in its wrapper, for Twinkie number two, as Oliver savored Twinkie number one.
He sipped his tea with lemon and considered the universe of options that were available to a free man. He thought about spending the chilly December day on the beach, strolling on the nearly empty boardwalk, but it occurred to him that he was thinking too small. He could drive to the airport, hop on a plane and before the day was over he could be walking on a beach in Malibu. A free man has choices. Why not, thought Oliver. Why not spend Christmas in California?
Oliver stopped home just long enough to change into his brown uniform and drive to the Mall of New Jersey. He was going to be late for work. He only hoped that his supervisor would understand.
Morris knew that Cassie was right; he was avoiding talking to the detective. He didn't tell her that he had been sitting in the Buick, just down the street from the station house for nearly twenty minutes when he called about the busboy. He'd seen the busboy in the pawnshop. He wasn't sure why that was important, but it had to mean something. Everything meant something. And apparently it meant everything to Cassie. Morris hoped it meant as much to the detective. He walked up the street, climbing the steps into the station house and asked to speak to Detective Bebedict.
The clerk at the front desk, buzzed the detective. "He'll be right out."
"Morris," growled Detective Bebedict, "it's about damn time." He looked at Morris fidgeting in the front lobby. "Let's go back to my desk and talk."
Morris didn't wait. "I have a message . . ." he blurted, but the detective waved him off. "In back, Morris. We'll talk in back."
Detective Bebedict led Morris down the hall to the detective's squad room. He pointed to an old wooden folding chair next to the detective's desk. "Sit."
Morris sat, afraid to talk, afraid not to talk.
Detective Bebedict began. "A few questions have come up about your relationship with the deceased."
Any other time, Morris would have wondered which deceased the detective was referring to. This time, he barely noticed. "I'll be happy to answer any questions, Detective, but there's something I need to tell you right away."
The Detective was pleased. Even the unspoken threat of an arrest was enough to get Morris to volunteer new information. This one, he told himself, was even easier than Oliver. "Okay. Morris. What is it you need to tell me?"
Morris looked the detective squarely in the eye. "I saw the busboy at the pawnshop."
"Huh? What are you talking about, Morris?"
Why doesn't the detective understand? "The kid at the Eggery . . . the new busboy."
Detective Bebedict wondered where this was going. "Okay, you saw the busboy at the pawnshop. Why is that so important?"
Morris wasn't sure. "I don't know, except when I told Cassie about the busboy, she told me she knew who the killer was."
"What?" The detective growled. "Who?"
"Cassie said to tell you to meet her at the mall. She's on her way there now."
Detective Bebedict was on his feet, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. "You're free to go, Morris."
Morris was still sitting on the wooden folding chair as the detective headed out the squad room door. He called to the detective. "Maybe you'll need help. Do you want me to go with you to the mall?"
From down the hall, Morris heard the detective as he raced for the door. "Go home, Morris."
High Noon
Watching from above, dozens of small boys and girls were climbing all over Santa's Workshop. Cassie was surprised to see that St. Nick was taking pleasure in the performance of his holiday duties. I guess anyone can get the Christmas spirit, Cassie discovered, even Santa Claus. Cassie found herself rooting for Tommy V., hoping that he was not an armed felon and crazed killer, but only a down on his luck department store Santa. She hoped he was not the Macks' partner, the inside man ripping off unsuspecting shoppers and worse.
Cassie kept one eye on Santa's Workshop and one eye on the mall's center hallway where it stretched down to the outer doors. She hoped to spot Eggs as soon as he arrived.
The first thing she noticed were the shoes. Despite the clatter of shoppers eating in the food court, the rustle of shopping bags, and the Christmas music piped through-out the mall, Cassie imagined she could hear each footfall as Little Mack strode down the hallway, each step rich with polish and purpose.
Cassie watched as he walked through the mall, in, but not of, the holiday traffic. He stood perfectly still as he rode the escalator down one level, the escalator depositing him just on the fringe of Santa's Workshop. Without appearing to muscle anyone out of his way, Little Mack glided through the crowd and suddenly was standing at Santa's side, patting the slight bulge in his suit jacket (right where Cassie imagined a shoulder holster would be located) and whispering in his ear.
Looking down on the scene from her spot at the railing, Cassie could see the alarm in Santa's eyes. She watched as Santa put up the rope at the front of the line, the one with the sign that said, "back in fifteen minutes." She saw the elves start to argue with Santa. An elf even tried to unhook the rope, but Little Mack reached out with one hand and the argument stopped. Little Mack put an arm around Santa and maneuvered through the crowd.
No one dared to tell Little Mack that Santa wasn't scheduled for a break yet. Then one clear voice spoke up for the children. "Hold it right there!"
The crowd of children waiting to see Santa moved aside. In his brown mall of New Jersey security guard uniform, Oliver Berryhill stood at the edge of Santa's Workshop. He screwed up his courage and locked eyes with Little Mack. "Santa's not going anywhere just now."
Cassie looked at her watch. It was noon. High noon.
Little Mack stood his ground; a grim laugh escaped his tight lips. "Well, well. Mr. Local Hero."
Oliver looked at his nemesis, three hundred pounds of granite encased in a fine Italian suit. "Not a hero," he said, "just doing my job." Oliver hoped he didn't sound foolish.
Little Mack wondered when the rent-a-cop had grown a backbone. "I'm impressed." If he'd been wearing a hat, Little Mack would have tipped it. "But not enough to alter my plans. Santa and I will be leaving now." Little Mack turned his back on Oliver, moving slowly but steadily toward the exit, nudging a silent Santa to follow along.
"Hold it right there," Oliver said, in a quiet, calm voice.
Little Mack was surprised by Oliver's resolve. He stopped and looked at the security guard. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing the shoulder holster. "You don't have the firepower to stop me, Berryhill."
"He may not, but—grr—I do." At the bottom of the escalator, Greta took a pistol from her purse, waving it at Little Mack. "Don't—grr—take another step."
Santa had been strangely silent during the exchange between Oliver Berryhill and Augie Maciborski, but the unexpected and oh so familiar growl unloosed his tongue. "Holy crap, Greta. What are you doing?"
Little Mack looked at Greta, but directed his question to Santa. "You know her?"
"That's Greta. My ex."
"Will she use that thing?"
"Yeah. I think she might." Tommy V. grinned. "I'm just not sure which one of us is the target."
Little Mack reached inside his coat, unholstering his Smith and Wesson 686P. "Put your gun down, lady, or say good-bye to Santa Claus."
Greta's laugh was throaty and phlegmatic, from too many cigarettes and just as many disappointments. "I killed your father, Maciborski. Don't think I won't shoot you, too."
The Detective's Advice
Eggs raced for his car and jumped in, firing up the ignition. Compulsively he checked all the gauges. His car was overdue for service and was running that way. Still, everything looked good. The engine sounded good. There was just enough gas left in the tank. Eggs tried without success to reach Cassie by phone. If she was already there, her phone would never find a cell inside the mall so there was no cause for worry when she didn't pick up. He could make it to the mall in fifteen minutes, ten if he turned on the siren.
Eggs reviewed the case in his head as he sped to the mall. It had been a strange few weeks since he was first called to the mall to investigate the very large, very dead man in the bathroom, dead of a very real knife wound to the throat. He had doubted Oliver's story right from the first. The notion that Oliver confronted him in the bathroom about stolen property, that Big Mack pulled a knife on him, that he stumbled and fell, slashing his own throat. It was obvious to the detective that Oliver's first story was an elaborate lie. The detective was not surprised when Oliver finally recanted. His second version of the incident, that Oliver simply walked in on an already dead Big Mack, well it did fit the detective's assessment of Oliver Berryhill, but it led the detective nowhere. And then there was the second murder, Louie Feldman, dead in the break room, of a gunshot. Oliver had been hanging around the break room, too. And now, Cassie wanted Eggs to meet her at the mall. Cassie knew who the killer was. Eggs didn't understand where the busboy fit in, but it must have something to do with Oliver. Eggs wanted to smack himself for letting his captain pull rank. Oliver should still be in lock-up. It was only a couple more miles to the mall. Eggs pressed down on the gas pedal.
And the car decelerated, gliding slowly to a stop, out of gas, nearly two miles short of its destination. Eggs had spent two decades on the job and now, of all times, to have made a rookie mistake. He cursed loudly and repeatedly as he sprinted along on the shoulder of the roadway, the Mall of New Jersey visible now up ahead, maddeningly close, and, at the same time, still so far away.
Morris sat alongside the detective's just-vacated desk, alone in the squad room, wondering what he should do. The detective's suggestion had been clear. "Go home," the detective had told him, and Morris knew it was sound advice. He would go home and wait for a phone call telling him this nightmare was finally over. He would go home and wait and then he would go about the task of trying to get his life, and his finances, back in order. Maybe, Morris considered, he could even figure out a way to get back into the magazine business. The key thing, for the moment, was just to follow the detective's advice.
Morris walked out of the station house, past the clerk at the front desk, down the steps to the street, down the street to his car. The Buick was waiting for him, just where he'd left it, at the expired parking meter. A ticket was tucked under the driver's side windshield wiper. Morris tossed the ticket in the glove compartment, turned on the radio, and drove home.
He pulled into the driveway at the money pit he affectionately called home. A four-bedroom colonial was far more house than he needed. Untangling the complicated mortgages, second mortgages, assorted loans and liens would be difficult, but Morris realized, it was time for him to get out from under this financial disaster. He was tired of playing the victim, tired of waiting around for others to fix the mess that had become his life. "Go home," the detective had said. Morris backed his car out of the driveway and drove off.
