Separate Cases, page 14
That meant that if he had been foolish enough to have Andy killed to cover up his connection with Scalesi—or with the Mafia in general—then Andy had been killed for no reason.
Maybe I should try telling Van Voorhies that. Maybe I should call him and tell him I had evidence and see what that made him do. Granted, that wasn’t detective work, but I knew a guy in Boston who did that all the time. Rather than try to find some definite evidence, he simply pushed and prodded until the guilty party came after him.
Before I approached Van Voorhies with a threat of evidence, though, I wanted to try to get some real evidence in my hot little hand. That meant I had to go see Caroline again.
41
Jay Carbone was still seated in that same plastic chair in front of Caroline’s room, and for a man who had been on twenty-four hour call he looked remarkably awake.
“Did you feed the cat?” was the first thing he asked me.
“Of course I fed the cat,” I said. “What do you take me for?”
“He gets testy if he misses a meal.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want him getting testy, would we?” I asked, relieved that I had remembered in time. “How is everything here?”
“Fine,” he said. “I had a nurse buy a newspaper and I took it in to her. I think your girl is ready to go home.”
I didn’t correct him about Caroline being “my girl.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said, patting him on the shoulder and going on in.
“Jack!” she said as I entered. She was sitting up in bed reading the paper.
“What’s the good word?”
“I’ve got five for you,” she said, “Get-me-out-of-here!”
“What do the doctors say?”
“Another couple of days.”
“Then I guess you’ll be staying another couple of days.”
“But I want to get out of here and help you, Jack,” she said. “You need me.”
“You can stay right where you are and help me a lot, Caroline.”
“How?”
I told her about the apartment being broken into and the office being ransacked. I did not tell her about being conked on the head, or that I had spent the night there and seen Andy’s ghost.
“But what were they looking for?”
“I think they were looking for more papers on Jules Van Voorhies.”
“After all this time?”
“They may not have wanted to break into your home so soon after Andy’s death,” I said.
“But if they removed the papers from the file in the office, why break into the apartment?”
“They didn’t get what they wanted then,” I said.
“What do you mean? Did they find it in the apartment? There wasn’t anything else in—”
“I think Andy found out something that was so hot he decided to hide part of the file. He’s the one who removed the contents.”
“Did he hide it in the apartment?” she asked. “Did they find it?”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Andy’d be too smart to hide it in the office or the apartment. Caroline, where would Andy hide something like that?”
She thought a moment then looked hopeless and said, “I don’t know.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Think hard.”
She frowned, thinking, and eventually gave up with a shrug.
“If Andy had a secret hiding place, it’s news to me.”
“Were you close, Caroline?” I asked. “I mean, wouldn’t you have known something like that?”
“Jack,” she said. “I knew a lot of things about Andy, but we really weren’t what you’d call a close couple. I mean . . . I knew he was seeing other women.”
“He, uh, was?”
She smiled and said, “You know it too, don’t you?”
“Uh . . .”
“Sure,” she said, “you must have seen him once or twice with a woman.”
“Well . . .”
“Never mind,” she said, touching my hand.
“Caroline,” I said, suddenly getting an idea, “did Andy have a particular woman?”
“If he did he kept that from me as well,” she said. “All I know is that there were telltale signs that he had been with other women, but I don’t know whether it was one or twenty-one. Why?”
“Well, if he did have one woman, he might have left the file with her.”
She stared down at her hands and said, “I can’t help you with that.”
“Who could?” I asked. “Who were Andy’s close friends?”
“We didn’t have a lot of friends,” she said. “At least, not in common. If you’re asking if Andy had an asshole buddy he’d confide in, I don’t think so. He wasn’t that type.”
I waited for more, but there wasn’t any more forthcoming.
I leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Do what the doctors tell you.”
“That’s the second time you’ve done that.”
“What?”
“Kissed me like we were brother and sister,” she said accusingly. “Don’t you know any other way to kiss?”
I stared at her for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. She had a soft, yielding mouth and she tasted faintly medicinal, but the kiss went on for some time.
When it was over I said, “See ya, Sis,” and got out of there.
I think I heard her yell, “Chicken!” as I was going out the door.
42
I went to Bogie’s for dinner. Vivian gave me a big welcome as I entered, and I told her I’d take a table rather than sit at the bar this time. She led me to my usual table—when I used a table—in the center of the wall opposite the bar. At table one there was a group of people, and I thought one of them looked familiar.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked.
“A bunch of mystery people,” she said. “Well, actually the table is being paid for by an editor, a friend of Billy and Karen’s from the Mystery Writers.”
“What’s his name?”
“Seidman.”
“Which is he?”
“The man with the glasses, sitting against the wall,” she said.
“Wasn’t he here with a party before?”
“Yes,” she said, “and he’s here again.”
Suddenly I didn’t like the man, but maybe it was because I didn’t have what he had—a large group of people hanging on my every word. I had friends, but you wouldn’t have found them sitting at a big round table with me. Chances are my friends wouldn’t like each other. I’m lucky they like me.
I ordered dinner and was just starting to eat when Billy came out of his office in the back. Once upon a time it had doubled as my office and I still used it sometimes for privacy. There hadn’t been very much need for privacy of late. Business wasn’t booming, and what would Dicky Hilary make of that?
I suddenly realized that was the first time in a long while I had thought of Dicky and what happened in court—and it didn’t bother me as much. I guess Packy’s death and Caroline getting beat up made me realize there are worse things in life than being made to look like a fool.
Billy came over to the table.
“Hi, Jack.”
“Hi, Billy,” I said. “Have a seat.”
“Let me get a coffee first.” He went to where the coffee pots were and poured himself a glass. He always drank his coffee from a glass rather than a cup. He added milk and sugar and then carried it over and sat down.
“So, how are you?” he asked.
“Confused.”
“I meant what’s new.”
“Very funny.”
“Bad case?”
“Two of them.”
“Hey, business is looking up. Maybe you’ll be able to pay your tab.”
I frowned and said, “I’m not sure, but I think I’m only getting paid for one of them.”
“Well,” he said with a fatalistic shrug, “there goes this month’s rent. Anything I can help with?”
Billy was always after me to let him help me on one of my cases.
“I’d like some help,” I said, “but I don’t think there’s anything you can do for me right now.”
He snapped his fingers and said, “Yes there is.” He started to get up as he said, “I can give you your messages.”
He walked to the bar and asked for the bartender—whose name was Killian—for my messages, then walked back and handed me a piece of paper.
“Thanks.”
“Maybe that’ll be something that will help.”
“I hope so,” I said. I read it and saw that a woman named Linda Matella had called me. Whoever had written the message had underlined the word “urgent.”
“So?”
“Potential client, I think,” I said. “Who took the message?”
“Killian.”
“Excuse me.”
I got up and walked to the bar. Killian was a medium height, dark-haired man with a pleasant Irish accent that the ladies ate up.
“Killian, what do you know about this message?”
“The lady said it was very important, Jack.”
“Did she say who she was?”
“I wrote her name—”
“I mean, beyond that. Did she say what it was about?”
“Let me think,” he said. “It came in earlier this evening. She said that she had something for you, and that it was very important she get in touch with you.”
“She has something for me?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say what?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“I don’t think—wait a minute. She said to tell you that it used to be Andy’s.”
The name hit me like a cold shower.
“Andy?” I repeated. “You’re sure she said Andy?”
“Positive.”
I looked at the message again. Linda Matella, 877-0714. “877, Killian,” I said. “Where’s that prefix from?”
He thought a moment, then said, “There’s a bar uptown with that prefix. It’s on Amsterdam, in the Eighties.”
“Thanks. I need the phone.”
He brought me the wireless and I impatiently punched out the number. It rang four times and I was starting to worry that she might not be in, but the phone was picked up in the middle of the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
“Linda Matella?”
“Yes.”
“This is Miles Jacoby.”
“Finally,” she said, with impatience.
“I’ve been very busy and unable to get back to you,” I said.
“I know you’ve been busy, Mr. Jacoby,” she said. “I read about Caroline in the papers, and I know you’re helping her.”
“Do you know Caroline?”
“Uh . . . no,” she said, “I’ve never met her, but Andy talked about her a lot.”
“You knew Andy?” I said, stupidly. She’d just said she did.
“Mr. Jacoby,” she said, “I knew Andy very well.” Her meaning was clear. Without even looking I had found Andy’s girlfriend, and she had something for me.
If I hadn’t been so stupid, I could have had it a week ago.
43
Linda Matella lived uptown, on West End between Eighty-second and Eighty-third. I caught a cab on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Twenty-sixth and sat impatiently through a twenty minute cab ride. Luckily it was getting dark and there was less traffic than there would have been during the day.
I overtipped the cabbie in my haste to get where I was going, entered the lobby, and pressed the buzzer marked 5C L. Matella.
“Yes?” her distorted voice said through the intercom.
“Miles Jacoby.”
She buzzed me in and I had another impatient ride, this time in the slow-moving elevator. When it reached five I shoved the door open and made a right turn. Right there next to the elevator, was 5C and I pressed the bell. I could hear her footsteps on a hardwood floor, and then the door swung open.
Bingo, I thought. Unless I had a bad memory for flashy blondes, this was the blonde who had been on Andy’s arm that time in Canada.
“You look familiar,” I said.
“So do you,” she said. “Come on in.”
She was tall, about five-ten, and she was wearing heels, so she stood taller than me. She was the beauty contest type, her blond hair long and luxurious, full of body—and speaking of body! Hers wouldn’t quit, as they say. In fact, she might have been too buxom to be the ideal beauty contest contestant. I read someplace that the bust sizes of Miss Americas and Miss Universes were going down. Maybe their I.Q.s were coming up.
“Go on inside,” she said, interrupting my thoughts as she closed the door. I walked into the apartment ahead of her.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.
“No, thanks. Your message said you had something for me. Something that used to be Andy’s?”
“Yes, I do. Listen, can we go in the kitchen? I was just putting on some pasta.”
“Sure,” I said, and followed her to the kitchen. She definitely had that runway type of walk, which had probably been turning heads since she was a teen. She appeared to me to be about twenty-eight or so. She was wearing a tight black skirt and a pink blouse. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was putting on a pot of pasta I would have thought she was going out.
Obviously she was expecting someone in.
The kitchen smelled of meat sauce and spices.
“Listen,” I said, “I can see you’re expecting company—”
“Just a friend,” she said. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
“No, thanks,” I said, becoming impatient. “I just want to pick up what you have for me.”
“It’s there,” she said from the stove, “on the kitchen table.”
I walked over to the table and picked up a number 10 white envelope, the kind you get mail in every day. From the feel of it, it contained quite a few pages. The front was blank.
The answers are in here, I thought. But the answers to what?
“How long did you know Andy?” I asked. Suddenly, I was wary of opening the envelope.
She turned from the stove and looked at me.
“Are you good friends with Caroline—Mrs. McWilliams?”
“I suppose you could say we’re friends,” I said.
“But not old friends?”
“No.”
“You’re not going to judge me, or anything? I mean, I know carrying on with a married man isn’t the coolest thing to do, but—well, you knew Andy. He was a very charming man.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You were at that convention, weren’t you?” she asked. “In Canada?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I saw you.” she said. “Well, that was what—two years ago? I’d known Andy about a year then.”
“You met after he was married?”
She frowned and said, “I thought you weren’t going to judge me.”
“I’m not . . . I’m sorry . . .” I said, but my sputtering was cut off by the bell.
“He’s early,” she said frowning. “Excuse me.”
“I should go—” I said.
“Please,” she said, “have a glass of wine or something.”
“All right.”
“Excuse me,” she said again, and went to answer the door.
I debated opening the envelope while she was gone, but I finally decided to stuff it in my jacket pocket. I had just done so when I heard footsteps approaching the kitchen. More than two sets . . .
I turned and saw Linda come staggering into the room, obviously on the wrong end of a push. She was followed by two men, both of whom had shoulders that filled the doorway.
“Jacoby, right?” one of them asked.
“I assume neither of these gentlemen is your date?” I said to Linda.
“I don’t know these two jokers,” she said. “They pushed their way in here—”
“Shut up, sweetheart,” the first man said. He looked like the star of that TV series, Wiseguy, only not as good-looking.
“What do you guys want?”
“There’s a little matter of a file, pal,” Wiseguy’s partner said. He looked like the guy who used to play Jethro, on The Beverly Hillbillies, only not as good-looking. They were both wearing long, black coats. They looked like undertakers. I wondered if that was an omen.
“What file?”
“Don’t play games, Jacoby,” Wiseguy said. “The file our boss is getting tired of looking for. The one we went to Bogie’s to ask you for. You was leaving, and we followed you here. Now we’re asking . . . give us the file.”
“Fellas,” I said, “I don’t know what—”
Wiseguy clapped his hand down on my shoulder hard, cutting me off.
“Let’s go someplace where we can be more comfortable, and talk about it, huh?”
I gave the kitchen a quick once over, looking for something to use as a weapon. My eyes came to rest on an aerosol can on top of the refrigerator, which was next to the stove. It was probably air freshener, but that didn’t matter. I was more concerned with the fact that it was an aerosol can. I had to do this right.
“Let’s go,” Wiseguy said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Into the living room, for now,” he said. “We might as well get comfortable while we . . . negotiate.”
“Let’s go,” Jethro echoed.
“Linda?” I said, indicating that she should go first.
Both Wiseguy and Jethro betrayed their upbringing by standing aside so she could go first. Wiseguy followed, eyeing her ass.
“You too, pal,” Jethro said.
“I’m coming,” I said, wondering how I was going to get ahold of that aerosol can.
I went through the kitchen door ahead of him, and he followed. There wasn’t much space for me to get by him, but I turned quickly and pushed past him back into the kitchen.
“Hey!” he shouted.
I ignored him, hoping he wouldn’t shoot me in the back. I grabbed the aerosol can and quickly dropped it into the pot of water Linda had started to boil for the pasta, then turned to face him as he charged into the kitchen after me with a gun in his hand.
