Kurtz and Barent Mystery Series: Books 1-3, page 64
A day later, two bodies floated up from the East River and were discovered by a couple of kids looking for empty cans and bottles to turn in for the deposit. The bodies’ hands and feet had been tied together and they had each been shot twice in the head, once in the temple and once again under the chin.
Joey and Don had finally returned home.
“I wish I could blame you for this,” Barent said. “But they’ve both been dead for over a week.”
Kurtz only grunted. It was ridiculous to take the murder of two hoodlums personally but Kurtz could not help being annoyed. So much for his marvelous clues.
“It was a professional hit,” Barent said, “two bullets each, nice and neat.”
“Wouldn’t a professional have dumped the bodies in the ocean? They should never have been found.”
“Sure he would. Or buried them in the Jersey swamps or ground them up for dog food. That’s what he would have done if he wanted them to disappear.”
“You’re saying that they were meant to be found.”
“Absolutely.”
Lenore sat on the couch, listening intently and sipping a brandy. “I should invite my mother over,” she said. “She would really get a kick out of this.”
Barent looked at her. “Two men have been murdered, in addition to Regina Cole. Your mother would find that entertaining?”
“My mother has a simple outlook on life. She saves her sympathy for the good guys.”
Barent barely shrugged. “Presumably Joey and Don got it because they had big mouths. The way they were found was meant to send a message.”
“Don’t talk,” Kurtz said.
“Exactly.”
“So who else did they talk to?”
“Nobody who would talk to us, you can bet on that.”
Kurtz reached over to the bottle and poured himself another brandy. “Isn’t that what informants are for?”
“My,” Barent said, “you are getting so good at this.”
Kurtz raised an eyebrow. “Just trying to be helpful,” he said. “Yeah,” Barent said. “That is what informants are for.”
Costas called the next day. “There’s quite a file on these guys,” he said. “What’s the story, anyway?”
Barent’s ears pricked up. “Tell me.”
“Joseph P. Herbert’s grandfather, Joseph Madison Herbert, was an early investor in Standard Oil. He was rich.”
“I knew that.”
“Alright, then did you know that Joseph M. Herbert’s son, Paul Joseph Herbert, liked to gamble? He liked to gamble so much that by Nineteen Twenty, the family was just about broke.”
“No,” Barent said. “I didn’t know that.”
“It seems that Paul Herbert was quite a character. Gambling wasn’t his only expensive habit. He also fancied himself a connoisseur of race horses. He bought a stud farm in Kentucky and spent fifteen years trying to breed himself a Derby winner. No luck. He also drank quite a lot and would periodically hole himself up in his suite of rooms with a couple of cases of liquor and a favorite mistress or two and not come out for weeks at a time.”
“Ah, the old days, when men lived life to the fullest.”
Costas snorted. “Yeah, a real role model. Anyway, by the time the old boy finally died, the family fortune had pretty much disappeared. Joseph P. Herbert, Paul Herbert’s son, took what was left and put it into bootleg liquor. Prohibition saved their bacon.”
Well, well. Put a different spin on the mansion up in Westchester. So much for old family money.
“Joseph P. was quite a story, himself. He trusted nobody, especially lawyers. He kept all the company records in his head, which actually makes some sense when you consider that his real business could easily have gotten him locked up in the federal pen. Supposedly, Herbert was a close associate of Owney Madden.”
Owney Madden had been dead for over fifty years but the name lived on in gangland legend. Owney “The Killer” Madden, boss of the Irish mob, close associate of Dutch Schultz and Vito Genovese and Charles “Lucky” Luciano. Nice friends, Barent thought.
“Any of this confirmed?”
“No. It was all rumor. The old boy was investigated by three different DA’s and at least once by the FBI. Nothing ever came of it.”
He should have been surprised, Barent reflected. He really should have. Why wasn’t he?
“How about Vincent Herbert?”
Costas’ voice hesitated. “Rumors. Rumors of ties to organized crime but nothing ever mentioned publicly. Ostensibly, the guy is a pillar of the community. He donates to half the charities in town.”
“And his brother, Joseph P. Herbert, Junior?”
“A sad story. The kid got caught in a bombing and wound up a fruitcake. He spent a few years at Van Gelden’s place in Westchester and then hung himself.”
“A bombing? I thought it was a gas explosion.”
“The official story was a gas explosion but the unofficial word was that the building was bombed out. It was an illicit distillery owned by Vito Genovese. This was around the time that Arthur Flegenheimer was making his moves. You know the name, Arthur Flegenheimer?”
“Dutch Schultz,” Barent said.
“That’s right, Dutch Schultz.”
“Dutch Schultz was murdered in a mob hit. His organization was taken over by Genovese and Luciano.”
“And Owney Madden.”
“So what was Junior doing in the building?”
“Nobody knows. Probably buying liquor for his old man.”
“What else do you have on him?”
“He was well-connected and he had a violent temper. He got thrown out of three different prep schools, mostly for not bothering to study but once for beating up another kid and also taking a swing at one of the teachers, and then when he was a little older he almost killed a guy who was making eyes at a girl he was interested in. There were two charges of statutory rape and one suit for breach of promise. Seems Junior liked the ladies and the ladies liked him back. Why not? He was young, he was good-looking and he was rich. None of the charges stuck.”
“Anything else on Junior?”
“Afraid not,” Costas said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Then tell me about Van Gelden.”
“Another strange one. During his career, at least three different patients accused him of sexual abuse and one accused him of physical assault in the form of repeated and enforced electrical shocks to the brain. All of the cases were either dropped or thrown out of court.”
“A prophet is without honor in his own country,” said Barent. “You got any more?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“I’m not. I’ve already had occasion to look into Van Gelden.”
“Okay, then how about this: three weeks before Joseph P. Herbert, Junior hung himself, a nurse at the Van Gelden Institute, named Claire Reisberg, was raped and strangled. A patient was accused of the crime but was found innocent by reason of insanity. Rumor had it that Van Gelden was doing the nasty with her but of course that was never confirmed. The autopsy did confirm that the girl was pregnant.”
Chapter 21
“Owney Madden,” Moran said thoughtfully. “Amazing.”
“The kingpin of the Irish mob in the nineteen-twenties and thirties,” Barent said, “friend and associate of Al Capone, Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano. Isn’t that special?”
Moran squinted at him and then smiled. “Puts a new light on Lenny and Dominick, that’s for sure.”
“It does lead one to suspect that the Herberts have kept up the old school tie, as it were.”
“But why would they need guys like Lenny and Dominick? They’ve got Marty Burnett and their own security team.”
“Who knows? Maybe Burnett is straight-laced.” Barent thought about the two men standing outside the door of the Herbert mansion. “Legitimate security doesn’t go around killing people and then dumping the bodies in the river, not even Joey and Don.”
“Unless they’re not legitimate security.”
“There’s no reason to think that.”
“There’s no reason not to.”
Barent grinned. “True.”
Moran slowly sucked in on his cigarette and let the smoke dribble out of his nose. “The Irish mob is not what it used to be. Mickey Nolan is in jail.”
For a period of nearly seventy years from the late eighteen-eighties, the Irish mob had owned the West Side of Manhattan, hence the name “Westies.” Unlike their Italian counterparts, the Westies had not initially possessed either a hierarchy or an organization. Composed almost entirely of young men fleeing from famine and British rule, they were a true mob, a mob ruled by the iron fist of the strongest and the most violent. By the time of Owney Madden, however, the era of the small time hood had given way to a more sophisticated—and more successful—veneer. And then over the next fifty years, the children of the mob grew up and went to American schools and learned professions and joined the middle class and largely drifted away from the old neighborhood. Most of them.
“Owney Madden spent some time in jail, too,” Barent said. “That didn’t stop him from running the organization.”
“Even if Mickey Nolan still has his hand in, which is probably true, and even if he’s in business somehow with Vincent Herbert, a tie-in to Gina Cole seems pretty far-fetched.”
“There are other Herberts than Victor. Why assume it’s the old man?”
“This is also true.” Barent smiled and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Love or money, isn’t that the saying? That’s why people commit murder; it’s one or the other, every time. We haven’t done so good with love, so let’s follow the money.”
Anticipating the returning stream of service men at the end of World War II, the Herberts had invested heavily in real estate on Long Island, Westchester, New Jersey and Southern Connecticut. Their money went into housing developments, parking lots, and shopping malls. Their fortunes had taken a brief dip during the real estate crash of the late nineteen-eighties but their investments had never been highly leveraged and the family fortunes soon recovered, or so went the stories. The truth was harder to ascertain. Ownership of stock accounting for more than five per-cent of a public corporation was on file with the SEC and could not be kept secret. The Herberts’ holdings were not public. No stock had ever been issued and their partners, if any, were strictly anonymous.
A talk with their adversaries proved illuminating, however, more for what was kept silent than for what was said.
Jacob King was a short, fat man who wore a business suit and smoked a cigar. Except for two tufts of black hair sticking out over both ears, his head was bald and seemed much too large for his body.
“Herbert?” King peered quizzically at his cigar. The look on his face was pained. “The old man hasn’t touched the business himself in over ten years. He’s retired. Gary runs the corporation now. Garrison Herbert. You have to respect him, in a way, but I wouldn’t want to live like him. Twelve hours a day at the office, every day. They say he hasn’t taken a vacation in ten years. Most guys, you sit down at the table, you start with a little small talk, maybe a cup of coffee, even a drink or two, just to break the ice, show you’re both human. Not Gary. Gary doesn’t joke. He barely even smiles. Gary underbid me on a development near the Meadowlands, a couple of years back. I don’t like Gary Herbert. Nobody does.”
Barent nodded. By this time, he had heard the story before. Nobody underbid the Herberts. Their suppliers were able to deliver goods at prices consistently lower than anybody else’s. Their workers were all union but, somehow, they never went on strike.
“And how was he able to do that?” Barent asked.
Ostensibly, the Herberts’ advantage over their competitors was the simple but overwhelming advantage of capital and size. Herbert Development could do what it did because the corporation had no necessity for outside financing. Goods and services were both cheaper when interest payments were not a consideration.
King sniffed and gave him a sly look. “A guy named Richie Adams tried to underbid Herbert, a few years ago this was. After a couple of days negotiating, Adams sold out his company to Herbert, went to Mexico and hasn’t been seen since.”
“And why would he do that?”
King peered sadly at the end of his cigar and said, “I guess Herbert made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“I see,” Barent said.
“I’m sure you do,” said Jacob King. “I’m sure you do.”
“It’s gone beyond us,” Barent said. “We’re out of our jurisdiction, also out of our league. Vincent Herbert lives in Rye. He has business interests throughout the Tri-State area. I don’t have the resources for a full-scale investigation into organized crime.”
Kurtz gave him a long look, then shrugged and took a bite out of his burger. “You don’t have to go after the organization. You just have to go after whoever murdered Regina Cole.”
“Yeah,” Barent said. “That’s so.” He nodded glumly.
The two men were sharing a lunch near Easton. Kurtz had finished with his morning cases and had nothing scheduled for the afternoon. Barent seemed depressed. He wanted to talk.
“Of course, there’s not a whole lot to tie any of the Herberts to Gina Cole,” Kurtz said.
“Just Walter Stang’s idiot story and a couple of dead hoods.”
Kurtz was uncomfortably aware that he himself was the source of the idiot story. From Walter Stang to Lenny and Dominick to Joey and Don, from there to Owney Madden and Joseph P. Herbert to Vincent Herbert and God knew who. “Don’t forget Eleanor Herbert,” Kurtz said.
“What about her?”
“Without Eleanor Herbert, there would have been nothing whatsoever to link anybody that we know of to Gina Cole.”
“So?”
Barent must really be down, Kurtz reflected. He was usually swifter on the uptake than this. “So Eleanor Herbert herself is either innocent or she’s got a death wish, unless you’re willing to believe in astral projection, which means that she knows more than she’s said. She may not even know that she knows it, but she knows it. She has to.”
“That’s the assumption we started with, way back when.”
“So maybe you should return to it. Eleanor Herbert is the only real lead that you have.”
Barent gave a crooked smile, cut a piece of apple pie with a fork and stolidly chewed it. “Let’s not forget Lynn Baker and Mark Woodson.”
“Do you really think Lynn Baker could have had anything to do with murdering Regina Cole?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Bullshit,” Kurtz said pleasantly.
Barent shrugged. “She’s being investigated. Sarah Lawrence College and Columbia Business School, no criminal record. No, I don’t believe Lynn Baker had anything to do with it.”
“So who did?”
“Someone who had something to gain.”
“Woodson?”
“Mark Woodson is dead.”
“But he didn’t used to be dead. And anyway, his body hasn’t been discovered.”
“So you figure he faked his own death so he could get away with the loot? What loot? Where’s the loot?”
“If the Herberts are involved, then there’s money in there somewhere.”
“So now we’re postulating some sort of connection between Mark Woodson and the Herberts?”
“Maybe there is one,” Kurtz said.
“Like what?”
“Try the obvious. The Herberts are rich and Woodson worked for a bank.”
Barent stared at him. He sniffed and said coldly. “Mark Woodson worked in the loan division of Gordon and Hill, a medium sized investment bank. Gordon and Hill has never done any business with Herbert Development. Leonard Bailey, Woodson’s supervisor, seemed a little wistful when he told me this. They would like to do business with Herbert Development. Herbert Development would be a major plum.” Barent wiped his lips daintily with a snowy white napkin and gave Kurtz a thin smile. “But I would like to assure you, just because I know you’re so concerned, that we will continue to pursue every possible connection, just like we’re continuing to pursue the connection to Joey and Don.” Barent’s smile grew wider. “You haven’t forgotten Joey and Don, have you?”
In point of fact, Kurtz had been trying to. The subject of Joey and Don was still an embarrassment. “No,” he said sullenly. “I haven’t forgotten Joey and Don.”
“Good.” Barent nodded firmly. “See that you don’t.”
Five minutes later, they had paid their bill and were out on the sidewalk. Barent stopped for a moment next to his car. “Give you a lift?”
“No, thanks. It’s only a couple of blocks. I’ll walk.”
“Alright, then, I’ll see you.”
Barent’s car shuddered as half-a-dozen bullets thudded into its opposite door. The windshield exploded. Barent cried out and clutched at the side of his head as something high pitched whizzed by Kurtz’ ear. “Get down!” Kurtz yelled. Both men dropped. The street, crowded an instant before, rapidly emptied as pedestrians ducked into open doorways.
“Shit,” Barent said. He was peering at an alley across the street. His gun was in his fist.
“Are you alright?” Kurtz said.
“I think so.” A thin red line creased Barent’s temple. It dribbled blood but didn’t look too deep.
It was lunch time in Manhattan. Every parking meter had a car by it. “I can crawl to the end of the street,” Kurtz said, “and circle around the block. Maybe come at him from the back end of the alley.”
