Too Old a Cat (Trace 6), page 10
“Good,” Mannion said. “Let me talk to Jackson.”
“Sure. By the way, Captain…”
“Yeah?”
“How’re your roses?”
“Put Jackson on the fucking phone,” Mannion screamed.
Razoni shrugged and dropped the receiver. It hit against the wood-paneled wall with a thud. He walked back along the bar and got back into his seat.
“Who was it?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Razoni said.
“Why? Who was it?”
“Not was, is,” Razoni said.
Jackson looked past him at the telephone dangling at the end of its cord.
“Who is it?” he said.
“It’s the captain. He wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, you evil fucker, you,” Jackson said, jumping to his feet and running toward the telephone.
“Be careful, Tough,” Razoni called. “I think he’s pissed at you.”
“Hello, Captain,” Jackson said into the phone.
“Took you long enough,” Mannion grumbled.
“Sorry, Captain, I was in the men’s room.”
“All right, all right. Razoni says you may have a break-through on the Salamanda case.”
“I think that’s a little overoptimistic,” Jackson said. “We don’t have anything yet.”
“Okay. Just let your flea-brained partner keep after it. I’ve got something else for you to do.”
“Alone?” Jackson asked.
“Of course alone,” Mannion said.
“But Ed’s my partner.”
“I know that. But I just want you to check something out and it’s a little delicate.” Jackson was silent and Mannion said, “Are you still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, do you know who Theodore Longworth is?”
“Sure. He’s the guy who runs United Broadcasting.”
“That’s right. I want you to go up to his place and talk to him. His daughter may be missing.”
“Missing? How old is she?”
“I don’t know. Twenty. I don’t know. Longworth thinks something may have happened to her.”
“Something?” Jackson said.
“Jackson, I don’t want you to mention this to anyone. He thinks maybe kidnapping.”
“Why us? Why not the FBI?”
“Because probably she hasn’t been and he doesn’t want any publicity on it. Will you just go up there and see what you can do?”
“And then what?”
“Fill me in and stay on the case if you have to,” Mannion said.
“What about Ed?”
“Leave him with the Swami. Tell him to eat a rose.”
“But, Captain, we’re partners.”
“Jackson, get up to Longworth’s right away. And report to me when you’re done. And listen, I know you guys are working on a day off. I’ll make it up to you. It’s just been one of those days. Get moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
The telephone clicked off in Jackson’s ear. He replaced the receiver slowly and returned to his seat.
“What’d he want?” Razoni asked.
“He was just wondering when you were going to solve the Swami’s murder.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That I didn’t think you were cut out to be a detective.”
“Me neither. I’m a lover.”
“Then you’ll love this,” said Jackson. “He wants to split us up.”
Razoni had his glass to his lips. He froze in position, then put his glass back down and turned slowly toward Jackson, “Split us up? Split us up?”
Jackson nodded. “Not permanently. Just for a while.”
“What while?” asked Razoni.
“He wants you to stay with Salamanda. He’s got another job for me.”
“Oh, bullshit. After I’ve gone to all this trouble to train you? What other job?” Razoni demanded.
“He wants me to go to talk to Theodore Longworth. You know, the guy who heads UBC.”
“I know who he is. He’s a fag.”
Jackson looked around cautiously, then lowered his voice. “Well, his daughter may be missing.”
“No good,” Razoni said. “Absolutely no, no, no way, no goddamn good. You’ll go up there to see him and you’ll be shuffling around, holding your hat in your hand, and you’ll embarrass the whole department.”
“I don’t wear a hat.”
“You should always have a hat when you go to see the president of a television network. When do you have to see him?”
“Right now.”
“Let’s go.” Razoni drained his drink and stood up, then waved the bartender over with an imperious crook of his finger.
“I’m leaving now,” Razoni told him, “so you can throw away that drink you were hiding under the bar in the dirty glass to slip back to me when I got drunk.”
The bartender smiled uncomfortably.
“There’s a girl may call here or stop in. Her name’s Pat. She’s good-looking. If she’s got a package for me, you just take it and I’ll pick it up. And make sure none of these slobs go pawing her.” He turned back to Jackson. “You ready yet?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he headed toward the door.
15
“It’s a good thing I’m going along,” Razoni said as they drove uptown.
“Good,” said Jackson. “Keep the reason fresh in your mind so you can tell the captain all about it.”
“Stop worrying.”
“Promise me one thing…that you’re not going to punch Longworth’s face out if he says something you don’t like.”
“I’m the soul of discretion,” Razoni said. “It’s just nice to be on a case again with real people instead of some half-assed sheet-wearing lizard. Even if Longworth is a fag. There’s one thing I can’t understand, though.”
“What’s that?” Jackson asked.
“Who’d want to steal his daughter away? She’s probably a fag just like him. Watch out for that dog!”
Jackson swerved the car to avoid a lonely scraggly dog dragging himself across the street.
“That’s probably the only dog on the East Side,” Jackson said.
“If you don’t count the women.”
“How do you know Longworth’s a fag?” Jackson asked as he tromped down again on the gas pedal.
“Anybody could tell,” Razoni said. “First of all, he owns that TV station, UBC, right?”
“Right.”
“And anyway, he still does all those editorials for them.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Jackson.
“Why does he do those editorials if he doesn’t have to? Why does he go out at eleven o’clock and read the news when he owns the freaking station and he doesn’t have to? Did you ever hear those editorials? Did you ever hear him read the news? If I hear about one more goddamn homeless person, one more complaint about cutting the welfare budget, I’ll throw up. He’s a fag.”
“I give up,” Jackson said.
“Speaking of fags, what’s that awful smell?”
“I hope you’re not talking about my aftershave,” Jackson said. “Sara gave it to me.”
“Throw it away. I’ll give you some of mine.”
“I don’t think I’d look right wearing Calabrian Nights of Revenge.”
“Oh, shut up,” Razoni said. “Up there. That’s his house. Look at the size of that house. That fag bastard. Start slowing down. Slower. Slower.”
Jackson hit the brake hard and swerved the car into a long cobblestoned driveway lined with evergreens. The house was well-known as the only one on the East Side of Manhattan with land around it. When they opened the car doors, a tree smell permeated the air. Jackson smiled at the freshness he rarely encountered anywhere in the city. They walked away from their car, parked behind a big Cadillac limousine, and Razoni breathed deeply as they walked up the marble steps to the entrance of the old Victorian mansion.
“What an awful smell,” Razoni said. “It smells like trees.”
“That’s what it is,” Jackson said.
“I thought so. He’s a fag.”
“Please, Ed,” said Jackson as he rang the doorbell. “No nonsense.”
They waited ten seconds before hearing a fumbling with the door latch. Slowly, the door opened wide to reveal a butler in formal uniform. Razoni jumped back in mock fright and Jackson gave him a look that would wilt a lawn.
“Good evening,” said the butler, holding his head up so that it seemed he was bouncing each word off the underside of his large British nose.
Razoni quickly said, “Mr. Longworth’s expecting us.”
“Very good, sir,” said the butler. “Whom should I announce?”
“Detectives Edward Razoni and Noodles Cavatelli,” Razoni said. “He’s Noodles.”
“Would you please step inside.” He stood aside to let them enter, and Jackson said, “That’s Detective Razoni and Detective Jackson.”
The butler nodded. “Please wait here.”
Out of his hearing, Jackson cautioned Razoni with a kindergarten wagging of a finger. “Now I warned you,” he said.
“Sorry, Tough, I thought he was Count Dracula. He scared the hell out of me.”
“No more, Ed. Please. I mean to collect my pension someday.”
“Aaaah, you got no sense of humor anymore.”
They spent the minute the butler was gone inspecting the large center hall, its vaulted ceiling with a central crystal chandelier, its curved and hand-carved wooden staircase at the far end. Razoni tried loudly to estimate the price of the furnishings, but since he had never owned a piece of furniture more expensive than the $119 foam-rubber sofa on which he slept, he was inadequate to the task.
“Why is it that expensive things are always ugly?” he asked Jackson.
The black detective reached out his right hand and carefully fingered the broad lapel of Razoni’s suit. “That’s what I keep asking you, Ed.”
The butler came back and led them through a broad sliding door into a wood-paneled study. Sitting in a tan leather chair on the far side of the room, in front of a stained-glass bay window, was the patrician face they had seen so many times on television—Theodore Longworth, who was high on Razoni’s list of those whose liberal policies had led to the disintegration of the city. Longworth looked up and his face brightened. The butler slid the door closed behind them.
“Hello, men, I’m glad you’re here,” Longworth said. He rose and walked to them, extending a very nervous hand for them to shake.
Jackson gripped it with a normal squeeze but Razoni let his own hand go limp and Longworth reacted as if he had just squeezed a lump of gelatinous ham-packing.
“Good to meet you. Sit down. Would you like a drink?”
Razoni looked at Jackson, who said quickly, “No, thanks. Not on the job.”
“What’s the problem?” Razoni said, noticing how golden Longworth’s hair was. It never looked that light on television. Fag hair.
“My daughter, Abigail,” Longworth said, pouring himself a Scotch from a sterling-silver-and-glass decanter. It was a fag of a whiskey bottle, Razoni thought, but some-how suitable for a man whom most considered the most important man in New York City. Longworth was the sole owner of the United Broadcasting Corporation, by far the largest television network headquartered in New York. He ran it with an iron hand, some calling him involved, the rest calling him a meddler. His reputation was that he personally approved each piece of film used on the network and local news shows; he hovered around the studios like a sorority mother, often on a whim chasing one of his regular anchormen from behind the desk and delivering the news himself. He kept to himself the job of delivering all the network and local-station editorials, concerned, earnest, thoughtful pieces that Razoni thought sounded like they’d been written in the Kremlin. Razoni welcomed the chance to examine him at first close range, this man who had been spoken of as a possible president of the United States.
Longworth took a large gulp from his whiskey glass, then turned slowly around, smiled, and stuck out his pinkie, holding the glass as if he were at a cocktail party of the Junior League. A fag, Razoni thought. Longworth sat in a Queen Anne chair, in front of Razoni and Jackson, and put his drink down on the table next to him.
“She didn’t come home,” he said.
“Home from where?” asked Razoni.
“From school yesterday. She had some morning classes and she left at the usual time, but she wasn’t there when my driver went to pick her up in the afternoon.” He picked up his drink and sipped it in a genteel but efficient fashion that emptied two-thirds of the liquid.
“What school?” asked Jackson
“Uptown branch of the city college,” Longworth said. He sipped again. “I believe in public education. We’re not going to make it better by sending all our brightest students to private schools.”
“And she didn’t call you after school? To tell you she was staying out?”
“No. And, besides, she never stays out.”
“So the last person we know who saw her was the chauffeur?” Jackson said.
“That’s right. Jenkins,” Longworth said. Razoni noticed that Longworth’s light-blue suit matched his eyes perfectly. His tie was a Pierre Cardin.
“Who’s Abigail’s boyfriend?” Razoni asked.
Before answering, Longworth finished his drink and got a refill from the decanter.
“No boyfriend. She’s a good girl. Never goes out, comes straight home from school. She knows how vulnerable she is, being the daughter of a public figure, and how her mother and I worry.” He finished pouring the drink and sipped it before turning around. Razoni had an urge to bite off the extended pinkie. “No, no boyfriends. She doesn’t run around at all,” Longworth said.
“Okay. Any girlfriends?” Razoni said.
“There’s a girl she knows from school. Karen Marichal. Her parents are artists. They live across the park on the West Side. But I called and they haven’t seen Abigail.”
“Where could we find this Jenkins?” Jackson asked.
“He’s at home. I spoke to him earlier and he’ll be home all night, in case you should want to talk to him.” He gave them an address in the West Side, midtown, not far from Razoni’s apartment.
Razoni saw a framed eight-by-ten photo of a pretty dark-haired girl with slanted brown eyes on the mantel over the unused fireplace.
“Is that Abigail?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Longworth without looking away from his glass.
“She’s pretty. A pretty girl like that must have some boyfriends,” Razoni suggested.
Longworth’s patrician face turned into a scowl and he said in a less smooth voice, “No. No boyfriends.”
Jackson glanced at Razoni, but Razoni was too interested in the changed expression on the television executive’s face to notice Jackson.
“But a pretty girl whose father is so rich must have plenty of boys banging on her…door,”
“Abigail is a good girl. She only has a girlfriend,” said Longworth, his voice rising to tenor.
Razoni looked at the picture. “Beautiful eyes,” he said. “Boys should come running.”
Longworth drained his new drink too. “No, no, no,” he said. “No boys. She always tells me I’m the only man in her life.” He stopped as if realizing he might have said something odd. He corrected his posture, crossed his legs, and slid back into an impeccable Ivy League accent. “What are you men going to do about my daughter?”
“You understand, Mr. Longworth,” Jackson said, “that we have to consider every possibility. Have you heard anything from anyone about her absence?”
“You mean, a ransom demand or something like that? The answer is no.”
“Then we have no real reason to believe that there has been any foul play?” Jackson said.
“No. Except that my Abigail is never away from home. She wouldn’t be out overnight without letting her father know.”
“I see. May we have this photograph?”
“I have a copy.” Longworth extracted his wallet from his jacket pocket and took out a picture that he handed toward Jackson. Razoni intercepted it. He looked at the picture, a wallet-sized duplicate of the one on the mantel. On the back of it was written, “To my Daddy, my only man, Abigail.” Razoni smirked as he put the picture inside his jacket.
“If you or Mrs. Longworth can think of any other names of friends Abigail might have mentioned, it might be helpful,” said Jackson. “And, of course, if you hear anything, you should let us know immediately. In the meantime, we’ll go speak to Jenkins.”
“You understand, of course, the need for discretion here,” Longworth said. “First of all, it’d look ridiculous if it appeared in the press that my daughter was missing, particularly if she was just detained somewhere for some simple reason. Second, after she does come home, it might give some other lunatic ideas…kidnapping ideas.”
“We understand,” Jackson said. He rose to his feet. So did Razoni. Longworth was a shaky third.
The TV man extended his hand. Jackson took it but Razoni turned his back, casually, as if looking over the room.
“I didn’t get your names.”
“I’m Detective Jackson and that’s Detective Razoni.”
“The mayor had the police commissioner call me. The commissioner said he would send up his best men.”
“That’s us,” Razoni said.
Longworth led them to the study door. “You can find your way out?”
“Yes, sir.”
At the door, the man clapped Jackson on the shoulder. Razoni noticed moisture in Longworth’s eyes.
“Find my little girl,” he said.
“We will,” Jackson promised.
As the sliding door closed behind them, Razoni heard Longworth mutter to himself: “You’d better.”
The two detectives sat in the car for a minute before Jackson started the motor.
“I don’t know why I let you drag me up here,” said Razoni. “Can you imagine two detectives wasting taxpayer’s money because sweet old Abigail is late for supper or something?”
“Poor bastard,” Jackson said.
