Murder and Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  Ham Face puts my gun in his pocket, turns a smarmy eye to Mrs. Atchley. “You got a gun, lady?”

  She doesn’t answer, just continues to stare at him as if insulted by this challenge from a member of society’s lower orders.

  I say, “This isn’t the time, Mrs. Atchley.”

  If her lips pursed any tighter, they’d crush her teeth, but she opens the claw latch of her handbag, slowly reaches inside.

  Ham Face might be a dullard in the sophistication department, but he’s wise to the ways of the streets. A slow hand could mean the wrong type of reach for a weapon, the type that ends up with a gun barrel aimed at your face. His street savvy brings his own gun out fast, aimed directly at the snooty lady in the expensive coat.

  Only she doesn’t look so snooty now. She’s gone pale as paper, her body shrinking inside her coat.

  I say to Ham Face, “Back off. She’s not looking for trouble. She’s just taking her gun from her bag.”

  Mrs. Atchley hands him her gun. Ham Face puts his away.

  He unlocks the elevator. I follow Mrs. Atchley inside. When the door slides closed and we’re alone, she finally breathes.

  I hope I didn’t make a mistake. I hope I didn’t give Dierdre Atchley too much credit for guts. If cut-rate muscle like Ham Face can scare the air out of her, I wonder how she’ll handle the first-rate murderer that’s Sig Loreale.

  The elevator opens at the penthouse floor. I take Mrs. Atchley’s elbow and escort her to Sig’s door. “If you want to save your son,” I say, “you’ve got to stay steady.”

  The door’s opened by Mike Mulroney, his weirdly pale blue eyes giving Mrs. Atchley an icy once-over.

  Looking now at me, he skips any greeting, just says, “He’s waiting for you on the terrace.”

  The terrace doors are across the living room. As we walk through, Mrs. Atchley appears surprised at the cozy décor, the fine art on the walls, and the sculptures around the room.

  I say, “What did you expect? Tommy guns on racks?”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t expect such refined taste from an immigrant gangster,” she says with an amusement that annoys me.

  “Actually, Sig was born here, not long after his parents got off the boat,” I say, matching her chilly amusement with some of my own. “By the way, Sig came by much of his refined taste courtesy of me, for a hefty price, of course. So I wouldn’t underestimate immigrants, Mrs. Atchley. You’d hurt my Coney Island immigrant Mom and Pop’s feelings. Of course, I’m sure you didn’t mean to offend.”

  The look on Mrs. Atchley’s face suggests she wishes she still had her gun.

  I open the French doors, lead her out to the terrace. If she was surprised by the good taste in Sig’s living room, she’s right at home amid the gilt Gothic arches and the view that looks over the city and down on the people who live in it. The terrace is an expression of power and influence, two things Dierdre Atchley understands very well.

  This may turn out okay after all.

  The terrace wraps around the entire apartment. We have to turn two corners to find Sig. He’s at the Fortieth Street side, overlooking Bryant Park and the big public library, the one with the famous lions out front. He’s leaning against the terrace wall, smoking a cigar. The tip glows, giving a red tint to the smoke gathered beneath the brim of his homburg. In his black coat and hat, he’s a silhouette against the light barely filtering up from the street and the lampposts in Bryant Park.

  I’m holding Mrs. Atchley’s arm. I feel her shiver. Sig has that effect on people.

  He says, “Good evening, Mrs. Atchley.” The chill of his slow, sharply articulated delivery makes Mrs. Atchley shiver again. “I understand your son was taken into custody by the police but has since been released.” Sig takes a pull on his cigar. Its red glow illuminates his baggy eyes. He’s not looking at Mrs. Atchley; he’s looking at me, silently scolding me for letting the police get hold of James Atchley before he did. Taking the cigar from his mouth, he finally looks at Mrs. Atchley, and says through an exhale of smoke, “Why come to me, Mrs. Atchley? I had no hand in your son’s arrest.”

  “Mr. Loreale,” she says with more steel in her voice than I’d expect after her earlier shiver, “we live on different sides of the street, you and I, but we both command considerable influence in this city. We both understand power. But your power moves in different circles than mine, darker ones. I am here to ask you to use that power to make sure that no harm comes to my son while I work to clear his name.”

  “And yours, Mrs. Atchley,” Sig says.

  “Indeed,” she admits. “We understand each other then.”

  Sig answers with silence and another pull on his cigar.

  Mrs. Atchley’s confidence seems to have gone a little shaky under the force of Sig’s brutal silence. She starts to say something, stops whatever she had in mind, then finally says, “Do you have an interest in the Garraway matter, Mr. Loreale?”

  “I have an interest in many things, Mrs. Atchley,” he says. He takes his time, as always, each word carrying the cadence of threat, as always. “And many people rely on me to keep those many things running smoothly, without interruption, and without drawing attention to those many things. Your son’s murder of Miss Garraway, followed by a public trial—”

  “My son did not murder anyone, Mr. Loreale.”

  “The police say he did, Mrs. Atchley.”

  “I would assume you are the kind of man who does not put his faith in the police.”

  Even in silhouette, I can see Sig’s head tilt back. The glow from his cigar catches the lower half of his face. I see his mouth open in his silent laugh, his empty, cringe-inducing laugh.

  Mrs. Atchley grabs my arm, an automatic gesture of shock. It’s everyone’s response the first time they’re witness to Sig’s bloodcurdling, soundless laughter.

  When the laugh is finished and he’s facing us again, he says, “You do not understand my relationship with the police, Mrs. Atchley. I have complete faith in them when I need to.”

  I say, “Which is why we’re here, Sig. Look, there’s no point in being dainty about it. The police— okay, Lieutenant Huber— screwed all of us: you, me, Mrs. Atchley, and certainly James. But maybe Huber screwed you most of all.”

  “And how is that, Cantor?”

  “He was a very bad boy, didn’t do what he was told—”

  Mrs. Atchley cuts in, “What do you mean, didn’t do what he was told? Told by whom?”

  Sig says, “I suggest you do not ask too many questions, Mrs. Atchley.” Sig’s tone says it’s not a suggestion.

  “And why not?” she counters. “My son is in danger. I have a right to know why. Because he got in your way, Mr. Loreale?”

  Another crushing silence from Sig. But this time it’s backed up with a stare so steady and cold even the red glow from his cigar can’t heat it up. It just makes it more terrifying.

  I’d better calm this situation down before Mrs. Dierdre Atchley’s name winds up on a Loreale death warrant. “Hold on a minute, everybody,” I say. “Look, Sig, she’s got a right to know what’s going on. Her son’s life is in the balance. But Mrs. Atchley,” I say to the defiant woman at my side, the angry mother protecting her cub, “you may have the right to know, but it might not be a good idea for you to know. If you want to protect James, if you want to salvage your family’s reputation, you should probably stay as clean as possible. The less dirt that sticks to you, the better. And there’s plenty of dirt around Eve Garraway to grow a garden of poisoned tomatoes.”

  I turn back to Sig. “But about Huber, let’s face it, he’s busted the Garraway mess wide open. Maybe he arrested the killer of Eve Garraway, and maybe he made a mistake. But by jumping the gun he’s forced you into taking care of the situation in less quiet ways than you usually like. And if he did arrest the wrong guy, you’ll have to deal with the problem all over again. You’ll have to deal with Huber all over again.”

  That got his attention. Sig looks at me like he’s tryi
ng to drill into my brain, trying to read my thoughts, the thoughts he knows I didn’t say, wouldn’t say in front of a civilian like Mrs. Atchley.

  After what feels like time crawling slowly through hell, Sig moves his gaze from me to her. “Your son is safe. For now. Good night, Mrs. Atchley.”

  She cringes at Sig’s for now, his words a sharp slap in her face.

  I take Mrs. Atchley’s arm to escort her out. She looks back at Sig, starts to say something, but before she can get her words out Sig says, “Not you, Cantor. We still have business to discuss.”

  “It’s all right,” I tell Mrs. Atchley. “You got what you came for. You’ve saved your son’s life. That’s enough for tonight.”

  With a nod to me, her alligator bag firmly under her arm, Dierdre Atchley walks away with all the dignity she was bred to flaunt. Maybe she knows, maybe she doesn’t, how lucky she is that her son’s not dead and neither is she.

  Sig watches her walk away. He’s still as stone. When she’s gone, he stays silent. Not quite the crushing silence of earlier, but heavy enough to make me stand around with my hands in my pockets like a kid waiting to have my ears boxed. Finally, he says, “That business about dealing with Lieutenant Huber. You are asking me to put a contract out on a cop.”

  “Hell no,” I say. “You know that’s a line I wouldn’t cross. It brings more heat than it’s worth. But I wouldn’t mind if you found other ways to take care of Huber.”

  “I see. Maybe you’d like me to arrange his early retirement.”

  “Yeah, to a nice little cabin outside a town nobody’s ever heard of in some backwater state far away,” I say. And you right along with him, I don’t say.

  “But the lieutenant is not all that’s troubling you, Cantor.” He tosses the stub of his cigar over the ledge of the terrace wall, not giving a damn if the burning thing lands on a passerby.

  I say, “I’ve got all sorts of troubles, Sig. Doesn’t everybody?” evading a subject I can’t bring up if I want to stay alive, the subject of the death of Alice Lamarr and my certainty he had her killed. I might end up following Sig’s cigar over the terrace wall.

  But Sig Loreale didn’t get to be the biggest, deadliest big shot in town by being dull in the skull. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew about me and Alice. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. The only surprise is that, so far, he doesn’t seem to care about it.

  He says, “Do you think James Atchley killed Eve Garraway?” He’s leaning over the terrace wall, his arms on the ledge. Light from the street brushes his face. I wish it didn’t. I wish I didn’t see the tension in his jowly jaw, the narrowing of his heavy-lidded eyes when he turns his head to look at me. Being under Sig Loreale’s stare is like being mowed down by an oncoming train.

  “I think it’s possible he killed her,” I say.

  “But you are not convinced.”

  I light a cigarette, let the tobacco keep me steady, let the smoke keep some distance between me and Sig. “The guy had plenty of reason,” I say, “but there’s the little problem of how he got into the house and up to Eve’s office with three other people in the place. That little detail is like grit in my eye.”

  “Then you must find out if that would have been possible. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything about the Tenzi matter?”

  “You already know Tenzi’s in the klink. He’ll get the chair for the murder of Lorraine Quinn. That should end it.” We’re skating close to talking about Alice, and maybe talking about Lorraine’s photos, too. I’m sure he knows about the first, but I’m not sure about the second. Both are making the hair on my neck twitch.

  “Well then,” he says, “we have nothing more to talk about until you bring me Eve Garraway’s killer, am I right?”

  “Can’t think of a thing,” I say.

  • • •

  The desk sergeant, a tired guy aptly named Withers who’s counting the days until his pension, can’t believe his eyes when he sees me walk into the precinct house. “Unless you’re turning yourself in, Gold, you got a lotta nerve strolling in here.”

  “Turn myself in for what?”

  “Pick something.”

  “Why, I’m just a concerned citizen come to share useful information with Lieutenant Huber.”

  “You? A concerned citizen? Don’t pull my leg.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I deadpan. “And don’t bother calling Huber. I know my way upstairs to his office.”

  Sergeant Withers doesn’t pick up the phone, doesn’t signal for help to any cops milling around. He just lets me go my way, figures he’s better off letting me be Huber’s problem.

  Upstairs in the squad room, uniformed cops and detectives in boring suits are at their desks, some on phones, some taking statements from willing or unwilling witnesses or from people dragged in in handcuffs. The place is noisy with phones ringing, civilians complaining, other cops horsing around over coffee. The room is thick with smoke from cigars and cigarettes, but it doesn’t blunt the stink eyes I get from the cops as I walk to Huber’s office.

  I raise my knuckles to knock on the door, then decide I don’t owe Huber the courtesy. I just walk in.

  He’s at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his collar open and his tie loose, his fedora on his head. He’s reading a police file when I come through the door. He closes it when he sees me. “Took you long enough,” he says.

  “If you figured I’d show up, then you know why I’m here.” I sit down in the chair opposite his desk, the same chair I sat in four years ago when Huber thought a wallop across my face would loosen my tongue about a murder I didn’t commit. It didn’t.

  He says, “You’re sore I didn’t let you in on the Atchley arrest.”

  “Y’know, Huber, you always did only get half the picture. This time, you’ve got even less than that.”

  He takes the stub of an unlit cigar from an ashtray that should have been emptied last week, lights the cigar, and blows the smoke in my direction. “And I suppose you’re going to fill me in?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d fill me in. That’s why I’m here. Fill me in on what you’ve got on James Atchley.”

  “Sure, I’ll fill you in, and then you can get the hell outta here. I don’t need you anymore, Gold. I got Atchley dead on for the Garraway killing. Even the brass who wanted me off the case are playing ball with this one. And you know why?”

  “I bet you’re gonna tell me.”

  “Cut the smart-mouth, Gold, or you can get lost, leave here no wiser than when you walked in. Listen, the brass is playing ball because they don’t like being pushed around either, and City Hall was pushing them around.”

  “And they pushed you around.”

  “Yeah. And then there was Atchley’s fancy lawyer, a real slick operator dropping diamond-studded names. The names were good enough to get Atchley released on bail, but that’s it. Mr. James Atchley is going to trial for murder. You and I both know he had motive, and his alibi is shaky for the time Eve Garraway caught it in the back. But here’s the kicker.” Huber’s warming to his tale, leaning forward in his chair. “It turns out the knife that killed Garraway belonged to one Mr. James Atchley.” He parks his cigar in the corner of his now triumphantly smiling mouth.

  He’s earned his triumph. That bit of evidence with the knife could sink James Atchley no matter how many high-priced lawyers his mother sics on the court.

  I pull out my pack of smokes, light one up while I think things over. After a deep drag and a long exhale that helps blur my view of the filthy window behind Huber’s desk, I say, “How do you know the knife is Atchley’s? You said there were no prints on it.”

  Huber leans back in his chair, lord of his shabby office. “You should’ve seen his face when I had him in the sweatbox and I showed him the crime scene photos of Garraway dead on the floor with a knife in her back. He babbled that it was his knife with a look of panic on his face I’ll take to my grave, smiling. And then he tried to sell me a cock-and-bull story that the knife was one o
f the antiques the family no longer wanted and put up for auction. Some coincidence, huh? The knife goes up for auction, and Eve Garraway just happens to buy the knife that will kill her?”

  “Lieutenant, did you check with the auction house?”

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Gold. Of course I checked,” he says, but his triumphant smile is gone, replaced by the pursed lips of annoyance. “They told me they had no record of a knife with a carved bone handle consigned to them by the Atchleys.”

  “That’s because the handle isn’t bone, lieutenant. It’s ivory.” Making a cop feel stupid is one of my great pleasures. Sometimes it’s a risky pleasure, like that day Huber walloped my face. But I’m in no danger of another wallop tonight. The only danger I’m in is maybe being tossed out of his office and the precinct station.

  But not yet. “Okay, I’ll go along that the knife bit doesn’t look good for James,” I say, playing for time by waving an olive branch. “On the other hand, did you ask him how the hell he got into Eve’s office without Desmond or me or Vivienne seeing him?”

  “I never got the chance,” he says with disgust. “His bail came through, and his lawyer had him out of there the minute Atchley babbled about the knife.”

  “Well, that’s it then,” I say and plunge my smoke into the overflowing ashtray. “I guess I’m really off the hook now for the Garraway killing.”

  Huber says, “I guess you are,” as if he’s swallowed sour milk. “But there’s always a next time, Gold.”

  “You should live so long,” I say and get up from the chair, ready to leave.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Those higher-ups who were pushing you around? Who do you think was pushing them around? Those same people still want the Garraway case to go away, and if they have to sacrifice James to do it, they will. I would put extra guards on his cell, lieutenant. And while you’re at it, maybe you should put some watchful eyes on Johnny Tenzi’s cell, too. You wouldn’t want him to imitate his wife and commit suicide, would you?”

  Huber doesn’t like my smart aleck suicide jab. His hollow cheeks turn dark, the skin stretched tight on his bones.