“No wonder she didn’t want to see him the other day. Having his kid isn’t going to win her any medals.” He scratched his chin. He needed a shave badly. “I gotta find her. And I need to get back to finding out who killed my client.”
Danny reached into his wallet and pulled out a few bills. “Here, take this and buy yourself a shirt. And something to eat.”
Morelli tried to wave it away, but Danny pushed it into his hands.
“I’m going back home, so I can be there if you need me. Just call. And I’ll keep an eye out for the redhead.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hell’s Kitchen
Tuesday
Aaron Hart climbed out of his Cadillac sedan in front of a run-down warehouse on West Forty-fifth. Two grubby little boys appeared from behind a parked car.
“Keep an eye on it for ya, mister?” one of them asked. The other cocked a fist on his hip and tossed a hard ball in the other hand. He looked ready to do some damage himself if their request was denied.
“Sure, boys. Here’s a dime, and there’ll be another when I come back, if the car is in the same shape.” He handed the money to the boy with the ball. That one seemed to be the ringleader and Hart figured that he was smart enough to stay for a second dime.
The door to the right of the warehouse was open, the lock long since broken. Hart stepped over a pile of indistinguishable gray trash at the base of the stairs, and carefully made his way to the third floor and down the hall. In the back, he knocked on the last door. Sean had better be in. Hart needed to straighten out the business with the cocaine.
He was very surprised when the person who answered his second round of knocking was not Sean O’Brien, but the lovely Maggie McElwaine. Her face was drawn and tired, and her eyes were smudged, but her fiery red hair was still aflame; his guts churned and he wanted her as much as he always had.
She caught sight of him and tried to slam the door shut, but Hart was faster, putting his foot between the door and the frame, and then pushing in when it bounced back off his shoe.
“Now that’s no way to greet a friend, Maggie.”
She retreated from him, across the tiny flat. Hart had never been here, even though he’d known where Sean lived ever since he first hired him. The place was better furnished than he expected, although the furniture was old and worn. It had once been fine. There was a bent-back settee and a dark, wood dresser along one wall. A dark table and four chairs sat next to the open doorway to the rear of the apartment. Hart could see an iron bed against the wall.
“I was expecting to meet your cousin, Sean. Do you know where he is, Maggie?”
“Gone out. Don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Maybe I should wait for him.” Hart pulled up the knees of his trousers and sat on the settee, crossing his legs. Maggie sidled across the room, against the wall, putting as much distance between them as possible. Hart watched her. Conflicting emotions swam across her face: fear, anger, hope.
“Do you know where Mickey is, Aaron?” Her voice was soft, but he could hear the need in it. He remembered when she spoke of him in such a voice.
“No, Maggie. I don’t know where your brother is. Why? Is he missing?” He patted the settee beside him. “Why don’t you come sit down and we can talk about it? I won’t hurt you, you know.”
“I’m fine standing, thank you.”
He could hear the pride in her voice now, a touch more of the Irish lilt that he loved.
“Let me ask you a question, Maggie. Do you know where Sean went? He and I have business to conclude. I have some money for him and I want to see that he gets paid.”
He could see her eyes brighten at the mention of money. She was like all the rest; she had a price.
“No, I don’t know where he went. And what sort of business do you have with my cousin?”
“If Sean hasn’t mentioned it to you, I don’t think I should betray his confidences. But rest assured that it is something profitable for both of us. I’m sure he would want to see it through.”
Maggie stood with her arms crossed, worrying the sleeve of her blouse at one elbow.
“Can you get me a glass of water, please, Maggie?” Maybe he could get past her defenses through simple courtesy.
“I’ll get you some water, but then you have to leave, Aaron. He’s not here and I don’t know when he’s coming back. And I don’t want you to stay.” She turned and went into the other room.
Hart could hear the sound of water running. She took the time to wash a glass and then brought it to him, but only a quarter full. She didn’t want him to stay long, apparently. Hart reached out for the glass, but grabbed her wrist instead, pulling her to him. The water spilled as Maggie jerked back, but he was too strong for her. A soft whimper left her throat before she clamped her mouth shut.
“I think we should go and wait for Sean at the Golden Ruby, Maggie.” Hart stood, drawing Maggie into his arms. Keeping a tight hold on her wrist, he pulled a calling card from his jacket pocket and left it on the settee. Sean would get the idea.
He forced Maggie down the stairs. She came without a sound, but not easily. The two boys were sitting on the fender of the Cadillac and he was happy to see that no damage had been done.
He tossed the dime into the street. “There you go, boys.” They scrambled after the money. He opened the door and shoved Maggie in ahead of him. It would be a challenge to drive one-handed, but he didn’t think she’d jump out of a moving car.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Morelli
The first thing he did was buy a new shirt. Then a cup of coffee and a roll. Next, he took a few minutes to clean the worst of the mud off his shoes. Finally, it was time to head up to 988 Fifth Avenue and have a look around to see if the police had started looking into the murder of Angel Eldridge.
There was a different doorman today. This one was young and scrawny; his uniform swam on him like a little kid wearing his father’s suits. Morelli hoped he could ask a few questions without answering any uncomfortable ones about his last visit to the building.
“Excuse me, is Miss Eldridge in?” He looked up toward the top floor, hoping that the doorman would get the hint.
“Who’s asking?” The young man tried to look tough, but didn’t really have it in him.
“Name’s Horace Benedetti. I’m Mrs. Hart’s florist. She asked me to come and see Miss Eldridge about some flowers for an upcoming event and I’m afraid I’ve been remiss in stopping by.”
“She’s… um… she’s not…” The doorman gulped. Morelli waited to see if he would go on. “You’re too late.”
“What do you mean?” Morelli looked at his watch. “It’s still early in the day; surely you could see your way clear to allowing me in to see her.”
“No, you don’t understand.” The young man leaned closer. “She’s not here. She’s… dead.”
Morelli gasped, his hand covering his mouth. “That poor young thing. Whatever could have happened to her? Was she ill?” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“No. Somebody killed her.” His eyes were wide as he said it, as if expecting Morelli to be shocked, but he didn’t go on.
“When did this happen, young man? Have the police been called?” Morelli feigned agitation, looking around as if the cops were right behind them.
“They found her Sunday. The maid came in and found her lying dead on the floor. The police came and sealed off the apartment, and nobody’s been allowed up there since. Thankfully, the Shugarts are out of town. They have the other penthouse apartment, you see, or they would be madder than hell at being kept out.”
“Are the police in there right now? Looking for clues?”
“Nah. They haven’t come in yet today. Mac, he’s the night doorman; he said that they would be back this morning, but I ain’t seem ‘em yet.”
“What about the maid? Perhaps I could speak with her. I need to confirm these flower arrangements and I certainly don’t want to disturb the family a
t a moment like this. Is she here?”
“Good heavens, no. She was so scared after she found the body, she said she’d never go back into that apartment. I don’t blame her, really. It must have been quite a sight to see your boss all bloody like that.”
Morelli noted that the young man seemed to relish the idea of the blood. He must not have actually seen it. Real blood has a tendency to dampen one’s enthusiasm for the idea. “Do you know where I might find her? The maid, I mean.”
“She lives somewhere in Brooklyn. Her name’s Maria. That’s all I know.”
That wasn’t going to do him any good. Morelli leaned forward and put a hand lightly on the doorman’s arm. “Do you have any idea who might have killed the poor child?” he whispered.
“Gosh, no. Everybody loved Angel.”
“Thank you, son. I’ll just be going.”
Morelli turned away and walked quickly down the sidewalk, clutching his handkerchief, the picture of a frightened florist. He rounded the corner onto Eightieth Street and stopped. Edging slowly back, he peered around the building until he could see the front of Angel’s building. The young doorman had stepped back to the door, out of the wind, and Morelli could only see the flap of his coat as the breeze tugged it. Perhaps, if he got lucky, he might know the cops who were coming back to deal with the apartment. He might even be able to slip upstairs with them and get some questions answered.
He needed to find someplace to wait so that he could keep an eye on the building without drawing attention to himself. Loitering was not appreciated in this part of town.
Across the street on Eightieth was another large apartment building. There was no apparent doorman, but he might just be inside out of the weather. Morelli noticed a small, discreet sign by the front door: “To Let” and a number. That would at least offer him an excuse to look around. He glanced back at Angel’s building—no sign of anyone except the flap of the doorman’s oversized coat.
Morelli walked back along Eightieth and then crossed north and strolled back up the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, in no hurry. Rounding the corner, he walked up to the door of 990 Fifth Avenue and peered in the window. There was no doorman in evidence inside either, so he didn’t need to explain himself at the moment. He turned back and slipped behind a column holding up the building’s awning. From this vantage point, he was not readily visible from the sidewalk and yet he had a view of the front of Angel’s building. He leaned back against the wall and waited. Someone interesting was bound to come along eventually.
There was surprisingly little foot traffic on Fifth Avenue, and what there was, moved along. The brisk wind was cold and the few men out walking their wives’ dogs or headed to work didn’t even bother to look in his direction. Behind him, a few people came and went from the Metropolitan Museum across Fifth Avenue. Morelli rubbed his stiff hands together to warm them and stamped his feet. He pulled out his watch to check how much time had passed. Thirty-five minutes. He wasn’t going to be able to hang around here much longer. He needed to find Maggie and talk to her some more about Hart. All these things might be connected or might having nothing to do with each other. And then there was still the break-in at Otten’s Sunday night. What had the thief been looking for, if not the jewels?
Morelli’s musings were broken by a flash of color in the corner of his vision. It was a bright green cap, floating along on the head of a tall, thin young man who was walking up Fifth Avenue from the south on the other side of the street. He walked with purpose until he was opposite Angel’s building and then stepped to the curb. Morelli saw him turn into the doorway of 988 Fifth Avenue, and immediately came out of his hiding place to get a better view.
The young doorman was there, refusing him entry, but Morelli couldn’t hear anything they said. The young man, Morelli noticed, was wearing a tweed jacket that seemed entirely too lightweight for the chilly September weather. He gestured and pleaded, but the doorman was adamant. Who was he trying to see, that he wasn’t allowed in? He could be some ex-beau whom the doorman had been cautioned to exclude, or a salesman of some sort trying to get in without an appointment, but Morelli had a hunch that it had something to do with Angel Eldridge. The doorman still had the same look on his face as when he’d told Morelli about the murder.
The young man turned and walked back the way he’d come, shaking his head and muttering. He paused to let a motorcar go past and then jaywalked across the street. The car’s exhaust started him coughing halfway across Fifth Avenue, and by the time he’d reached the near curb, he had to lean against a tree and catch his breath. Morelli recognized the signs of mustard gas poisoning. Poor fellow. Morelli would take his scar and his nightmares over the horrors of gassed lungs, any day. The fellow righted himself and continued up Fifth Avenue. He pulled a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and coughed into it. The motion and the sound triggered a memory in Morelli’s tired brain. The thief that night at Otten’s had a similar cough, and the white handkerchief could have been what Morelli had seen in his hand in the office. He decided that there might just be something to be learned by following him. Besides, no one else of interest had shown up, including the police, and he was getting stiff from the cold. Time to move on.
He set a variable pace behind his target. The green cap and the man’s height made it easy to spot him from a distance of more than a block. Occasionally, Morelli slowed to round a corner and then peeked out to see if he’d been noticed, but the young man never turned around. He entered Central Park at Seventy-second Street and headed toward the zoo. Morelli closed the distance and waited until the path ducked under a short tunnel before sprinting to catch him. The young man jumped back when Morelli reached for his elbow as they came out of the tunnel, nearly falling over a bench beside the path.
“Hey, what do you want?” His cough returned and he pulled out his handkerchief again.
“Just a word, mister.” Morelli noticed that he had a smooth southern drawl. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you ask?” He looked at Morelli warily.
“You looked like someone I knew in the war, that’s all. Then when I got close, I realized you’re too young. So, what is your name?”
“Rutledge. What is yours?”
Morelli thought for a moment about whether to tell him the truth. At this point, he wanted answers more than he worried about the danger of Rutledge knowing his name.
“Morelli.”
Rutledge drew back in alarm. So, he did know the name and that meant he might be the one who Morelli had caught in Otten’s office. But what was he doing there that night and then at Angel’s apartment today? Morelli decided to press on.
“Do you know Aaron Hart?”
Rutledge tried to collect himself. He straightened up and thrust out his chest. “What makes you think I might?”
“Just that I saw you up on Fifth Avenue at the Hart’s apartment building and I thought you might know.”
Rutledge stared at him, making up his mind. “I work for Mrs. Hart.”
“And what were you doing down near City Hall on Sunday night? That was you who broke into Otten’s office, wasn’t it?”
Rutledge looked down and away, not wanting to answer. Morelli watched for signs that he was about to bolt, but he merely stood for a few moments before deciding to talk. He lifted his head and looked Morelli straight in the eye, his chin stuck out.
“I was looking for you.”
“For me?” That didn’t make any sense. “Why would you look for me in Ottensluffer’s Jewelry store?”
Rutledge reached inside his jacket and Morelli grabbed his arm with an iron grip.
“Wait. I’m just getting something to show you.”
Morelli let him withdraw the wallet he had in the interior pocket. He extracted a card and handed it over. It was the one he’d given Mrs. Hart. It had his name, the street address and Otten’s phone number.
“Mrs. Hart told me you would be at this address. I found out that the phone number on the card
was for the jewelry store office.”
“So, you broke in during the night? Thinking what, that you’d find me sleeping and could murder me in my sleep?”
“No. I waited all afternoon, but didn’t see you. I didn’t have a way to break into the store, but I noticed the cellar cover was unlocked, so I came back after dark so that the neighbors wouldn’t call the police. I wanted to look for your file on Angel Eldridge, my employer’s daughter. Mrs. Hart says you are looking into who killed her and that you know something about her husband, Mr. Hart.”
“Well, you’ve found me now. And you can tell Mrs. Hart that I will call on her when I have all the answers about Angel. Not before then. So, stay out of my way, do you understand? This is more dangerous than you know. I almost shot you last night.”
“Yes, sir.” Rutledge had the grace to look sheepish. “I’ll relay your message to Mrs. Hart.”
Morelli turned and walked away without a backward look. He may not have solved the case of Angel’s death, but at least he could tell Otten that no one was after his jewels.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Favors
Tuesday afternoon
At Fifth and Twenty-eight, Morelli stopped by the speakeasy again. Charleston opened the door on the first knock.
“Well, Morelli, back again so soon?”
“I need to talk to you, Charleston. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“What’s this about, man? You in trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle at the moment, but I could use some information.”
“Sure, man, sure. Come on in.” Charleston led the way into the room. Hank was behind the bar again and Morelli gave him a nod. He and Charleston went to sit at a tiny table in the back.
“What gives?” Charleston sprawled in the little stick chair, looking like he would break it at any second.
“You know the two cops who were in here last week with me? Flarrity and O’Neill?”
Shattered Angel Page 18