Icarus w-2, page 31
part #2 of Westwood Series
"I found him," Jack said. "And I also found the Entertainer."
Bryan looked stunned. "Come on," he said. "How'd you do that?"
So Jack told him, even the part about going to her apartment and having her draw the knife, and Bryan shook his head admiringly. "You're like a regular Columbo," he said. "So what now?"
"I don't know, exactly," Jack admitted. "Try to find the next one, I guess. Or see if I can find out anything more about Leslee. The Entertainer."
"You think she might have killed Kid?"
"I don't know. I think she's certainly capable of it."
"Wow. I wonder if I know who she is," Bryan said. "I used to go to a couple of those clubs with Kid. And I think I know which one you mean. Goddamn, I just never figured out, when you said 'the Entertainer,' that it would be one of those girls." He looked at his watch and frowned. "I gotta go. Workin' at Hanson's today. But like I said before, Mr. Keller, I'd really like to help. So if you need me, just call." And as he waited for the elevator he looked at Jack again and again, shook his head, saying, "I think I'm gonna have to call you Columbo from now on."
– "-"-"AT FOUR IN the afternoon, Jack's phone rang. When he picked it up, after the third ring, he heard a woman's voice say, "Hi." He was surprised that he immediately recognized the voice, but he definitely did. He didn't respond. Just held the receiver up to his ear.
"It's Leslee," the voice said now. And with a little giggle: "The Entertainer."
"What do you want?" Jack asked.
"Look," she said, "I know what I did was incredibly stupid. I don't know what happened and I'm really and truly sorry."
"How'd you get my number?" he asked.
"I'm a great detective, too," she said. "You're listed." And after a pause: "I know you're not going to want to do this, but I'd like you to come over to my apartment tonight. I don't have to work. I can make you dinner. Well, actually I can't, I'm the world's worst cook unless you like frijoles, but I can order in Chinese food. My treat."
"Why?" he said.
"Because after you left, I started thinking. I remembered a few things about Kid. Stuff I heard, stuff he said."
"Like what?"
"There's just some weird stuff that you might find helpful. I'm not sure what any of it means but I'd rather tell you in person." When he didn't say anything, she added, "I'll tell you what. I'll wear something really unsexy and won't play any music and won't drink. And I'll leave my little knife outside my door so you can see it when you come up. What more could you want?"
What more could I want? he thought. But what he said was "What time?" And when she told him eight o'clock he also said, "And I'll bring the Chinese food."
– "-"-"SHE DIDN'T ANSWER the buzzer at first and Jack's immediate reaction was to get annoyed as hell because he thought she wasn't home, that he was wasting his time. He gave a yank on the door to the building but, as expected, it was locked. Just for the hell of it, not hoping for much, he pressed the buzzer again, and this time she buzzed back, a very quick one, and Jack pushed the front door to the brownstone open and started up the wine-colored carpeted staircase.
When he got to the third-floor landing, he took two steps toward her front door and saw her switchblade. It was lying on the carpet, on top of a piece of lined yellow legal paper. He picked up the knife, fingered it, held the note a little closer so he could read it. He noticed that at the top right-hand corner the paper was wet. A few drops of water had wrinkled it and blurred one of the lines. All the note said, in very precise handwriting, was It's open. Come in.
Jack put one foot inside the apartment, called out, "Hello?" but didn't get a response. He took another step forward, closed the door behind him. "Leslee?" he said. She still didn't answer but then he heard the rush of running bathwater.
In the tub, he thought. She must have rushed out to leave the note and that's how the paper got wet. Then rushed back in. He saw a few drops of water leading back to the bathroom.
He went into the kitchen, put the Chinese food he was carrying on the counter. She had plates and silverware already laid out. And a round platter, a piece of rough-hewn, handmade pottery.
Jack went back out into the living room, walked over to the bathroom door, and knocked once. "I'm hungry," he said but didn't get a reply.
Now he went back into the kitchen, searched for a moment, found a large serving spoon, and began opening the white food containers. Everything was still hot so he began dishing it out onto the large platter. "Time to get out," he called. "It's hot and I'm starving."
He didn't know where she wanted to eat, there was no dining room, so he figured they'd eat in the living room, on the sofas. He carried the platter out and put it on a small, painted-pine trunk that appeared to serve as her coffee table. Okay, he thought, enough's enough.
Jack walked to the bathroom. Knocked on the door, hard this time, and said, "You're clean enough! Let's eat!" Again, no answer, and now he felt something, heard it, too, and he looked down at his shoes. A stream of water was coming out from under the bathroom door, moving faster even as he stared down at it. It swirled into the entryway, making its way toward the front door. "Leslee?" he said. And then he opened the bathroom door.
Water rushed out now, it was an inch deep on the bathroom floor. The throw rug on the floor was sopping wet. The shower curtain was closed but bunched together and being pulled where it was touching the water. The faucet was on and water was running into the tub, but the tub was full, and the water was pouring over the top, spilling onto the floor, running now along the length of the apartment.
Jack took a deep breath, pulled the shower curtain open.
Leslee was stretched out naked under the water. The back of her head was half in the water, half propped up on the tub's porcelain rim. Her hair was wet and stringy. Her left arm was folded over her stomach. Her right arm was floating by her side. A long syringe was still embedded in the front of her elbow joint. Jack could see the needle, shiny and silvery under the water.
Her mouth was open slightly, giving her face that familiar lopsided appearance. But there was no grin visible. Her eyes were wide open and he thought what he saw in them was pure terror.
He stepped gingerly out of the small bathroom, went into the living room, past the platter of spring rolls and garlic chicken and noodles with sesame sauce and spicy shrimp and scallions. He walked straight to the phone, asked the operator to connect him to the Eighth Precinct, spoke to the sergeant on desk duty, and then was put through to Sergeant Patience McCoy, who was just on her way out, once again, to meet her husband Elmore for dinner.
"I told you you'd better have a good reason for pestering me, Jack," she said.
He told her that he did.
He told her he thought that murder was a pretty good reason.
FORTY
What was he doing?
Playing policeman? Looking for clues? Talking to Kid's friends? Finding the Team?
He was crazy, Jack Keller was. Trying to find a murderer. What sense did that make? What goddamn sense?
None.
It could have been over. It could have been all over!
Why was he doing this? Why wouldn't he leave it alone?
Why won't he let me be? Why does he still want to ruin my life?
Why why why why why why why?
Trying to prove that Kid was murdered. Trying to find the murderer.
Okay. Let him try. And maybe he won't have to try so hard.
Maybe the murderer will find him…
FORTY-ONE
The first thing Sergeant McCoy did was to tell Jack to call his lawyer. He didn't want to, didn't think it was necessary, but she told him it was and insisted before she hung up.
Jack stood off to the side as first a police team showed up, then McCoy, about half an hour later, then an ambulance, with medics to take Leslee's body away on a stretcher. Jack took them through what had happened step-by-step, told them all that the only thing he'd done since discovering the body was to turn the water off in the bathtub.
The cops took about two hours to go over the apartment. While they did, Jack sat in the living room on one of the couches. No one paid any attention to him. He didn't demand any attention be paid. He just sat quietly and watched them do their job until nine-thirty, when Herb Bloomfield, Jack's lawyer, showed up. He pulled Jack into the bedroom, asked him a few questions – what exactly had happened, what the hell was he doing there, what had the police said or not said to him – then the two of them went back into the living room and waited quietly.
It was ten-fifteen when Patience McCoy came over to the couch. She sat down next to Jack; he could feel the cushion sag as her weight was added to his. She didn't say anything to him or to Herb for several seconds. Then she turned to Jack, shook her head, and said, "Is there anything you want to tell me?"
Herb didn't let him speak. He immediately jumped in and started insisting that this could be done the next morning, but Sergeant McCoy just looked wearily at him and said, "I don't think your client is a suspect, Counselor. I think he's a damn fool but I sure as hell don't think he killed this girl. And I don't want to see him tomorrow morning because I don't want to have to think about this by tomorrow morning. I want it to be over now. So give me five minutes and then we can all go home."
That shut Herb up immediately. He nodded, first at McCoy, then at Jack, a signal for him to say whatever he wanted.
Jack met McCoy's glare head-on. "I don't know what you're looking for me to say," he told her.
"I want to know if you've got any reason to think this is anything but a drug overdose. Our take is that she's the sequel to Kid's death. Maybe both were accidental, maybe not, but they both took too many drugs and they both died."
"You're not serious."
"I'm as serious as anyone you're ever going to meet, Jack. We got nothing to show that anyone's been in here but that poor girl – and you."
"Somebody buzzed me into the apartment."
"So you said. But you also said the door to the building was locked."
"It is."
"Uh-uh. The lock's been broken. So you ain't got a lot of credibility right now. Maybe you rang the wrong buzzer; it's possible. We're checking everyone in the building; a few people aren't home right now. Before we go to all that trouble, do you want to change your story?"
Jack was stunned. He knew the door had been locked. He'd tried it. What the hell was happening? Could it have been broken after he'd come up the stairs? And why? What in God's name was going on?
"Why would I lie?" he said to McCoy.
"You tell me," was her response. "You tell me, Jack."
"Thank you very much, Sergeant." Herb stood up now, took Jack's hand, and yanked him to his feet. "My client's said all he's going to say."
McCoy shook her head, held her hands out as if to signal a truce. "I said he wasn't a suspect and he's not a suspect." Standing now and turning to face Jack, she said, "If you've got any legitimate reason to think this is a murder, tell me now because my boys didn't find a goddamn thing. Pending the lab report, it's going in the book as an accidental OD."
Jack tried to gather his thoughts. Once again, he realized he was stymied. What could he say? The girl was killed by the same person who killed Kid? She was killed by someone who wanted to stop her from talking? She was killed because she knew something that none of them knew and now might never know? No, he couldn't say any of that. Because he had no proof. He knew it was true but he didn't have one shred of logical, irrefutable evidence. All he had was his gut. And his faith in Kid Demeter. And the fact that he knew someone had buzzed him into the Entertainer's apartment…
"No," he said slowly. "I don't have any reason to think it was anything but an accident."
"You called it in as a murder."
"I guess I was mistaken."
Sergeant McCoy nodded grimly, clapped her notebook shut, and nodded at the team of cops that had gathered in the Entertainer's living room. As her team began to disperse, McCoy looked at Jack and said, "I'm not sure why you're here, Jack, although I have a pretty good idea. I'm not gonna ask you because I don't think you'll tell me the truth, so what's the point. But I am gonna tell you something. Which is, whatever you think you're doin', stop it now. Not tomorrow, not the day after, now. Right this minute. Stop pokin' around, stop goin' places you have no business bein' in.
"Sergeant," Herb interrupted, "I've got to object to your behavior and your statement. My client has every right to be visiting a woman in her apartment."
"I'm not saying he doesn't have the right. God knows I'm a big supporter of the Constitution of the United States, Counselor." She smiled her most accommodating smile at the lawyer. "I'm just telling him to stop exercising that right," she said.
– "-"-"HERB HAD USED a car service to come to Leslee's apartment and he'd told the driver to keep the Ford Explorer waiting. They rode back to Jack's apartment in silence. When the Explorer pulled up in front of the building, Herb asked the driver to wait for him again, then, turning to Jack, said, "You want me to come up for a drink?"
Jack shook his head. "I'm fine," he said and opened the car door.
Herb reached for him, touched him lightly on the arm, started to say something. But then he shook his head and gave a sour smile and said, "Damn, this is the first time in my life I don't have any fucking idea what to say." Jack started to step out but Herb tightened his grip. "But that's not gonna stop me from talking," he said. "I don't know what's going on, old buddy, and if you don't want to tell me, that's fine. But as your good pal I'm telling you to be careful. As your lawyer, I'm telling you to be extra careful. That cop said you weren't a suspect but I know cops and she left out a word. And she did it because you're rich and well known and I'm almost as rich and, if not so well known, at least fairly well respected. The word she left out is 'yet.' You're not a suspect yet."
With that, Herb released Jack's arm, watched as he got out of the car, and then nodded wearily to the driver.
In the elevator ride up to his apartment, Jack tried to piece things together. But the pieces all seemed so scattered, so disconnected. He arrived at Leslee's apartment, rang her buzzer. No answer. Someone was in there with her, though, had to be. But doing what? Putting the needle in her arm? Waiting for her to die? And then what? Jack had buzzed a second time, and this one was answered. A short buzz back, letting him into the building. A minute to climb the stairs? Two minutes? And now there was no one in the apartment. No one except the dead girl in the bathtub.
He tried to imagine what could have happened. Someone buzzes him in, leaves the apartment…
Jack realized he was picturing this someone as a woman. Someone Leslee would trust. One of Kid's team.
She had buzzed Leslee from downstairs. Identified herself as a friend of Kid's. Or maybe didn't even have to. Maybe Leslee was already in the tub, assumed that Jack had arrived early, hopped out to quickly press the buzzer, then dashed back to the bath. That made sense. He could picture that.
She got to the top of the stairs, saw the note – and the knife – that Leslee had left by the door. Went inside. Maybe she sat on the edge of the tub and talked to the girl, lulled her into a sense of ease. Was Leslee already shooting drugs? Maybe. Maybe this woman knew it. Maybe she knew it wouldn't be hard to get her going. All she had to do was up the dosage. Or maybe it was a struggle. Or maybe Leslee closed her eyes, relaxed in the warm water, and then here it came, a sudden jab, the syringe stuck in her arm, a quick thrashing and then…
Then what?
Then Jack buzzed. Leslee was already dead or certainly near death. The woman turned the water back on, a good distraction for when Jack arrived. She buzzed him in, stepping over Leslee's note – maybe dripping water on it, maybe that's how it got wet – and then she went up a flight of stairs, perhaps only half a flight. She might have watched him enter. When he closed the door, she went straight downstairs, out the front door to the street. She was gone. Safe.
Stopping first to jimmy the lock on the door? To break it after the fact?
Why? What purpose did that serve?
For one, it made him look like a liar. Or, worse, it made it seem as if he were the one who broke into the building.
It could make him look like the killer.
The elevator stopped now on Jack's floor. The door slid open and he stepped into his living room. His imagination was running away with him, he decided. Why would anyone want him to look like a murderer? For that matter, how would anyone even know he was involved?
Well, one person already knew. The Mortician. Eva Migliarini knew he was gathering information. She knew he was trying to find the other members of the Team. He could picture her talking to Leslee. She could easily have access to drugs. And he could see her pulling out the needle, sticking it into the naked girl, the girl who was compulsively cleansing off the world's stench in her bathwater.
Jack shook his head as if to clear away his overly dramatic ruminations. He went into the kitchen, took out a highball glass, then turned and went into the living room, straight for the bar, poured himself half a glassful of twelve-year-old single-malt scotch.
Forget all this, he told himself. You just had a shock. You saw a dead body. And not just a body, someone you knew, someone you'd heard so much about. It's natural to start imagining things. Christ! No wonder McCoy was looking at you like that. You must have sounded like an idiot. A paranoid idiot. So just forget it, drink your scotch and watch SportsCenter and forget about outsmarting the New York City Police Department.
Jack flicked on the TV, sat in his regular chair, got comfortable as he heard Dan Patrick say, "A slider to McGwire… and a whiffffff." As Jack sipped his drink, he glanced to his left, toward the Hopper painting, prepared to smile, as he always did when he saw it. Only this time he didn't smile. Because he didn't see it. The painting was gone.
Jack jumped up, the scotch swishing over the top of the glass and spilling onto his shirt. He took two steps over toward the bare wall, stopped suddenly, because he saw now that it was not gone. It had been taken off its hook on the wall. Someone had removed it, leaned it carefully against the baseboard. Jack ran to it, saw that it was unmarked and unharmed.
