An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “One day, when I was eighteen years old, an armed robber entered the bank. My father confronted him, and the robber shot him dead. The guy ran out and was never caught. The police investigation was pathetic. They dragged it out until it was too late. Word on the street was that the Cosa Nostra paid them off and shipped the guy back to Italy.” She shook her head ruefully.

  “It devastated our family. We had to sell the bank. I told my mother I wanted to become a police officer so I could work from the inside and find out who was responsible. She thought I was crazy. ‘Let your brother do it,’ she said, but I knew the force wasn’t for him. He was such a sweet kid, never got into trouble. He wanted to be a musician.”

  Her brow furrowed. “So where is he now? Fighting for his life on some godforsaken island in the Pacific. And here I am, wearing a different uniform and fighting my own battles on the home front. I still want to find out who killed my father, even if it’s true that he’s out of reach. That’s why I’m a cop.”

  Her frankness impressed him. “That’s as good a reason as I’ve ever heard,” he said, “but I don’t suppose you get much time to investigate such a cold case.”

  “No, it’s more a matter of keeping my ear to the ground, hoping something or someone will lead me in the right direction. After five years on the force, I’ve got a reputation as the precinct’s chief snoop.”

  They had reached the office, and Fitz held the door for her. “No wonder Dillon put me on to you,” he said aloud, and to himself, I’m sure glad he did.

  As they entered, Nita tossed her head and looked back at him, anticipating his unspoken question. “Yes, it’s natural. I come from a long line of fire-breathing redheads.”

  Fitz removed his cap and ran his hand over his own ginger hair. “You could be talking about my family, too.”

  “If my dad had been a bit less like that, he might still be alive. But solving that killing will have to wait a bit longer.”

  She directed him to a regulation hard wooden chair and took one for herself. “Let’s go over your case. What have you got?”

  “Not much,” Fitz told her. He pushed a headshot across the desk. “He was an artist, half Cuban Negro, half Chinese.”

  “Now there’s a combination.” She studied the picture thoughtfully. “Any reason to believe that either community is involved?”

  “Apparently he let the killer in, so it was someone he knew or wasn’t wary of. He had to open two doors for him.”

  “Or her,” Nita added.

  “Right you are. Can’t rule out anything at this early stage. We don’t have the medical examiner’s report yet, so even the cause of death is unknown.”

  “No marks, no wounds?”

  “No evident ones, according to O’Connell’s crime scene report. He was the detective on duty when the guys who found the body came in.” Fitz hesitated, not wanting to offend Nita. He was already feeling a mixture of respect and attraction. “One peculiar thing. The body had a weird costume on.” He pulled out the crime scene photograph.

  Nita studied it with interest.

  “The report says it was put on him after death. He didn’t do the getup himself. His friends, the ones who found him, said they had no idea why he was dressed up like that. But the guys at the station, uh, they have an idea. They think it’s a Cuban voodoo thing, especially since he’s part Negro. I’m sure not everybody from the islands does that pagan stuff, but I have to check it out. Is there anything like that going on up here?”

  “I know what Anglos think of us,” she said, then corrected herself. “Some of them, anyway. I don’t want to generalize either.” She smiled reassuringly. “In fact, there are a few older folks who practice Santería—that’s the Cuban version of voodoo—but it’s not big here. I know a self-styled priestess, really more of a fortune-teller and traditional healer. She can probably tell you if there’s anything to link this costume to Santería ritual.”

  Fitz gathered up the photographs. “Let’s go see her.”

  Thirteen

  A half-mile walk down Varick Street and across Canal took Yun Gee into the heart of Chinatown. Heading east, he took a right on Mott, then turned into a narrow alley beside a nondescript restaurant, its filthy windows, peeling paint, and lack of English-language signs calculated to repel tourists.

  A man dressed as a cook lounged by the rear door. In reality he was a sentry guarding the entrance to the headquarters of the On Leong Association, Chinatown’s most powerful tong. As soon as he saw Gee, he straightened and reached a hand under his apron, where a knife was sheathed on his belt.

  Gee approached slowly, keeping both hands visible. He addressed the sentry in Cantonese. “I am Yun Gee. I wish to pay my respects and to petition your master, whose shoes I am unworthy to kiss.”

  The sentry’s cold eyes appraised him. “Wait here.” He unlocked the back door and disappeared into the hall, locking the door behind him.

  Presently the door opened and the sentry beckoned Gee inside, where a large bodyguard was waiting to escort him. The man was well over six feet tall and massively built. Bulging muscles strained his suit jacket. A shoulder holster distorted it even more.

  After a thorough frisking, Gee was shown to an unmarked door halfway down the hall. The bodyguard knocked lightly, opened the door, and led him inside, then closed the door and stationed himself in front of it. Not a word had been spoken since Gee entered the building.

  The windowless room was strictly utilitarian. A small shaded lamp on an elaborately carved wooden desk that showed years of rough use was the only light. Packing crates labeled in Chinese characters were stacked along one wall. A single restaurant chair stood well back from the desk. Behind the desk sat a slender figure in a silk robe.

  A hand on Gee’s back directed him to the chair and another on his shoulder compelled him to sit. From that vantage, he could see the figure’s arms resting on the desk, its hands tucked Hollywood-cliché style into richly embroidered sleeves. The massive desk blocked all but the upper body, and the shaded light left the face largely obscured, but Gee knew he was sitting opposite the man who controlled most of Chinatown’s commerce, both legal and illegal.

  There was no need for Gee to introduce himself. The tongs had a line on New York’s entire Chinese community, especially those who lived in and around Chinatown. He waited until he was spoken to.

  “Your visit honors me.” The voice was soft, slightly high-pitched, almost feminine. “How may I be of service?”

  Gee had given much thought to his approach. Indirection, he decided, was imperative.

  “I come in sorrow,” he began. “I mourn the loss of a dear friend, a fellow artist, Wifredo Lam.”

  “The name is known to me. What happened to him?”

  Aware of the superstition against speaking of death directly, Gee obfuscated. “He joined his ancestors last night, before his time. An intruder, apparently.”

  “But not identified.” It was a statement, not a question. “I see. You wish revenge.”

  “No, not revenge,” Gee replied, even though that would have been appropriate by tong standards. “I would like justice.”

  Yun thought he detected a smile on the shadowed face.

  “You are becoming American. It is your wife’s influence, no doubt. A fine woman. You are fortunate. She has given you a beautiful daughter.”

  A shiver ran up Gee’s back. It was not an overt threat, but a reminder that he and his family were vulnerable. The police would be powerless to prevent retribution if he ran afoul of On Leong.

  He hoped his face didn’t betray his apprehension. To cover it, he broke into a broad grin.

  “Yes, my little Li-Lan is beautiful indeed, and very clever. I am teaching her our language.”

  “Let us hope she will grow to honor her father and her ancestors.” The soft voice hardened slightly. “Meanwhile we must turn ou
r attention to the intruder. I will have inquiries made.”

  The hand returned to Gee’s shoulder, indicating that the audience was over. He had to suppress a sigh of relief. So much had remained unsaid. He hadn’t given Lam’s address, or the time of death, or the circumstances. Such details were unnecessary. It was assumed that Gee was looking for Lam’s killer in the Chinese community, that law enforcement would take over once a suspect was identified, and if that led them to the tong, he would face personal consequences.

  Frankly, he thought, if the killer does turn out to be Chinese, straightforward revenge, courtesy of On Leong, would mean a lot less trouble for me. He stood and bowed deeply.

  “I am humbled by your concern. Lam was a great artist, a credit to his people. We must know if one of us has wronged him.”

  “We will know. You will be informed.”

  Fourteen

  A sign in the front window of the ground-floor apartment on East 110th Street identified Madame Carmen as a spiritual advisor and announced that she was open for business. The sign sported a staring eye on the left and a circle with three dots on the right. Nita explained the significance.

  “She’s playing to two audiences—the ordinary ones who want their fortunes told and the Santería believers. That symbol on the right is otanes, the stones that represent their deities.”

  As they entered the vestibule, a bell sounded inside the apartment. The door to the front parlor was open, so they stepped in.

  Madame Carmen’s consulting room was sparsely furnished. Dark drapes covered the windows, and a few chairs were placed against the walls. There was a fireplace with plastic flowers in the grate and candles on the mantel. In the center, a circular table covered in red velvet cloth was set with a crystal ball and a deck of tarot cards. A tall oak armchair sat behind it, also decorated in red velvet. Two heavily shaded floor lamps glowed dimly on either side of a black-curtained door at the back. A whiff of incense hung in the air.

  The curtains parted, and Madame Carmen stepped into the room. Here was the Latina stereotype Fitz had envisioned, but outfitted in gypsy costume instead of a police uniform. Like a character in a music hall revue, she wore giant hoop earrings, a checkered head scarf from which a tangle of artificially black curls struggled to emerge, and a bright green tasseled shawl over an electric-blue satin dress that emphasized her ample proportions.

  “Good morning, Juanita. Your visit is always a delight. You bring another handsome Anglo policeman. How many do you have on the string?” she teased in Spanish.

  “Only one at a time, madame. I wear one out, and then they send another. But let’s speak English.”

  “Of course, how impolite of me. I apologize. Welcome, Officer.” She waved her guests to chairs, but Fitz demurred.

  “Thank you kindly, Madame Carmen, but this isn’t a social call. We want to ask your advice about a case we’re working on. It involves a Cuban national.” He pulled out a headshot of Lam and handed it to her. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  No sooner had she taken the photo from him than she dropped it on the table and jerked her hand back as if she’d touched hot metal.

  “Muerto,” she whispered. “That man is dead.”

  Maybe there’s something to this clairvoyance thing, Fitz thought. A good look would tell anybody that it’s a photo of a corpse, but the light in here’s too low for her to have seen it clearly.

  “You’re right,” he told her. “Let’s go over to the window and crack the drapes so you can see his face. I’ll hold the picture for you.”

  Reluctantly she followed him to the front of the room. He pulled back the curtain and held the photograph up to the light. She studied it carefully.

  “I do not know him. He is of mixed blood, I see. Tell me about him.”

  Fitz explained what was known so far and then got to the crucial question. This time he prepared her.

  “What I’m going to show you is the crime scene photo,” he explained. “Whoever killed him dressed up the body in a very strange way. I want to know if you can tell me whether it has anything to do with Santería.” The light from the window showed the details clearly.

  Madame Carmen shook her head vehemently. “In Santería this would be blasphemous! We do not defile our dead with umbrellas and chicken’s feet.” She turned away in disgust.

  “It could be a clumsy attempt to implicate a Santería follower,” suggested Nita, “or a deliberate act of disrespect.”

  Madame looked skeptical. “But why was he killed? If you know the reason, you will find the killer, and he will tell you why he put those things on the body.”

  “There is no clear motive,” Fitz explained. “At this point, we don’t even know how he died, much less who killed him. As I told you, robbery doesn’t seem likely. Nothing is missing as far as we can tell. He was an artist, living alone, pretty much from hand to mouth.”

  “Alone, you say?” madame asked. She reached out and took the crime scene photo, laid it flat on the table, and covered it with her hands. “Where is his wife?” she asked.

  Again Fitz wondered whether she might actually have some kind of second sight. How could she know Lam was married? But he was trained not to show his surprise. “According to his friends, his wife is with his family in Cuba.”

  “I feel a woman’s aura,” she continued. “Perhaps a lover in the wife’s absence? There is anger in the room, whether his or hers I cannot tell.” She moved her hands slowly over the photograph.

  “Something else, too. Fear. It leaves a bad feeling, very strong.”

  Fifteen

  It was fear that motivated Matta as he hurried across Lafayette Street and up to the door of the loft building at 42 Bleecker. Following not too far behind him, Dillon crossed the street and positioned himself in the stairwell of the subway station opposite.

  The curtains on the first-floor window were drawn. Matta leaned over and rapped on the glass several times. “David,” he cried. “It’s Matta. Let me in. I must talk to you.”

  David Hare lifted his head from between Jacqueline Lamba’s legs. “Not now. Come back later,” he shouted.

  “This can’t wait,” Matta insisted. He hit the window again, hard enough to rattle the aging frame.

  “All right, all right, stop that racket,” replied Hare angrily. “Meet me in the coffee shop on the corner. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  From across the street, Dillon couldn’t make out what Hare said. He watched Matta leave Hare’s door and turn toward Lafayette. The street was nearly deserted. Gas rationing kept automobile traffic to an essential minimum, even during the week, and on a Sunday morning it was virtually nonexistent.

  Dillon hung back as long as he could and was preparing to follow when Matta went into the coffee shop.

  From the stairwell, Dillon could keep the entrance in sight without being visible from the window. In that position he could also keep an eye on Hare’s building. The artist’s name and address were on the list of Lam’s friends that Matta had given him. It wasn’t long before he saw a tall, rail-thin young man, his bushy blond hair disheveled and his expression grumpy, come out of the loft and head for the coffee shop. That must be Hare, thought Dillon. An appropriate name, given that mop on his head. Why did he want to meet outside instead of at his place? he wondered.

  Hare slid into the booth opposite Matta. He was not glad to see his friend. A waitress approached and took their order for two coffees.

  “Damn you, what’s so urgent? You interrupted something important.”

  “I know what I interrupted,” Matta replied. “You and Jacqueline don’t exactly keep your affair a secret. I don’t understand why Breton puts up with it.”

  Hare let out a snort. “Yes, you do. Breton needs me to publish his journal and pay for his kid’s school. Fucking his wife is a small compensation for those services.”

  Hare�
��s family fortune allowed him to indulge his enthusiasms, and in return, his involvement with the Surrealists had substantial professional benefits. It gave credibility to his fledgling artistic career, which had begun modestly a few years earlier with experiments in manipulated photography and could easily have been dismissed as a dilettante’s dabbling.

  Fortunately for him, his cousin, the Surrealist painter Kay Sage—another of the American expatriates who had returned from Europe—introduced him to the European artists in her circle, and he had felt an immediate kinship with their iconoclastic attitudes. Even though he couldn’t speak their language, he appreciated their aims and quickly attached himself to their coattails.

  His attraction to Lamba was magnetic from the start, and they used her English fluency as an excuse for their relationship. With her as his go-between, he underwrote Breton’s magazine, VVV, and became an invaluable liaison with the New York intelligentsia.

  That mutual dependence accounted for his cynicism, which gave way to a more nuanced explanation.

  “Besides, Breton has nothing to say about it. Jacqueline and I are in love. She’s going to leave him and marry me.”

  “Let’s forget your sex life,” Matta snapped. “You won’t be in the mood when I tell you the news. Lam is dead, killed in his apartment. The police came around this morning wanting to know who his friends are. They think one of us did it.”

  Hare stiffened, his amazement evident on his face. “Jesus Christ. When did it happen?”

  “Last night.”

  “But we were all at your place.”

  “It was earlier, they think. Before the party. Breton found him at around ten thirty, then headed for my place. Did you see him come in? I was in the studio with Mercedes, getting nowhere with her, unfortunately. According to the cop, Breton wanted to report it, but not without a translator. He came to fetch someone bilingual and found Duchamp. They went to the police station and were stuck there all night.”