Anyway, once Pop was through with his pitch, I began to think seriously about supper. I was too hungry to wait for the D’Agostino order to be delivered, so I decided to throw a few things together.
There were enough ingredients around—but barely—to fix myself a salad, which I’d be having with my old standby, a refrigerator omelet. This name, courtesy of Ellen, reflecting the fact that the omelet contains practically every morsel that’s in the refrigerator at the time of its conception. Tonight’s choices were especially meager. The best I could come up with were some leftover ham that it’s likely should have seen the inside of a garbage can days ago, a small piece of semislimy red pepper, and a chunk of extra-sharp cheddar cheese that, if eaten in its present solid state, could easily have broken a tooth or two.
Believe it or not, though, the finished product didn’t taste half-bad. But the real test would be whether I woke up the next morning.
I’m pleased to report that I made it through the night. I was, therefore, able to show up at the Twelfth Precinct for my eight-thirty meeting with Tim Fielding.
I entered the arena armed with two cups of coffee and half a dozen donuts—four of them with chocolate icing and walnut sprinkles.
Tim got to his feet when I approached his desk, which was in the middle of a large, dingy room bustling with activity. He greeted me with an expression that bordered on a smile, following which he patted me lightly on the back a couple of times. “Well, well, if it isn’t Desiree Shapiro. I thought maybe I should have asked you to put a rose between your teeth so I’d recognize you. But you look the same.”
He looked the same, too. (Had it really been close to a year ago?) There still didn’t appear to be an ounce of extra fat on the short, muscular body. And Fielding’s wiry, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair remained more pepper than salt. I quickly placed the bag of goodies on his desk and gave him a nice, warm hug.
“Cut it out,” he told me with feigned severity. “I’m a happily married man—most of the time, anyhow.” Then with an exaggerated sigh: “Well, as long as you’re here, you may as well sit.” He indicated the wooden chair alongside his desk.
Taking the suggestion, I plunked myself down, and he followed suit. But before I had the chance to say boo, someone horned in. “Hey, Tim.”
The man at the desk directly in front of Fielding’s was calling out over his shoulder. “I was wondering,” the fellow said as he turned toward us, “if—” On noting my presence, he stopped abruptly. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he murmured.
Now, the guy was occupying Detective Walter Corcoran’s chair in Detective Walter Corcoran’s space. But unless my eyes and ears were simultaneously playing tricks on me, this was not Fielding’s longtime partner.
“Hold it a minute, Norm,” Fielding instructed, as the policeman started to swivel around in his seat again. “I’d like you to meet Desiree Shapiro, an old buddy—although old nemesis would probably be more accurate. Dez, this is my new partner, Detective Norm Melnick.”
Norm got up and came over to shake my hand. He was young—not much more than thirty, I estimated—and medium-tall, with light hair and clean-cut, boyish good looks. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shapiro.”
No, I reassured myself, this was most definitely not Walter Corcoran.
“Call me Desiree. Please. And it’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Desiree’s a PI,” Fielding elaborated, “and you have to watch out for her. Someday she’s liable to come here with coffee and your favorite kind of donut. And while she’s plying you with sugar and calories, she’s going to worm whatever she can out of you. And she’s good at it, too. So my advice is, if she ever puts one of these on your desk”—Fielding tapped the paper bag—“beat it into the men’s room and don’t come out until you’re sure she’s gone.”
“I’m partial to Krispy Kremes, the glazed kind—and without the jelly,” Melnick apprised me. And laughing softly, he returned to his desk.
Well, regardless of his initially addressing me as ma’am (which, just as soon as I could check myself out in a mirror, would have me counting my wrinkles), Norm Melnick was certainly an improvement over his predecessor. And I told Tim so.
“Don’t give me that.” He dug into the goody bag and pulled out the Styrofoam cup with the “B” on the lid. After which he reached in again to extract a donut. “I’ve always known you harbored a secret crush on Walt,” he teased.
“Geez, Tim, I was positive I had you fooled.” I got up then and carried the bag over to Melnick. “There aren’t any Krispy Kremes,” I apologized, “but I’ll keep your preference in mind for next time. Meanwhile, have one of these.” Melnick settled for the strawberry, which was my choice, too. Being he was the un-Corcoran, however, I couldn’t possibly begrudge it to him.
The instant I redeposited myself next to Fielding I put the burning question to him. “So tell me before curiosity does me in, what happened to Corcoran?”
“He accepted a big position in one of those private security firms—executive vice president, no less. I have his card if you’re interested in getting together with him.” His eyes were twinkling.
“I’d rather get together with an ax murderer,” I rejoined, before helping myself to coffee and a jelly donut.
As you’ve no doubt gathered, Walter Corcoran and I were friendly enemies—only without the friendly. The man really got under my skin. And apparently I was equally successful in crawling beneath his epidermis. I mean, to give you an idea, a couple of his least offensive appellations for me were “world’s A-number-one pain in the ass” and “Miss Chubette,” which was delivered with the appropriate sneer. I’ll tell you, even the room here suddenly looked brighter now that I realized Corcoran was no longer in it.
Fielding licked some chocolate off his fingers. “Listen, I’ve already taken more time with you than I can spare. So why don’t we get down to business, huh, Shapiro?”
“Glad to. Why do you suspect John Lander of murdering his cousin?”
“I have my reasons,” he responded enigmatically.
“You’ve got to be aware that there are other people who also stand to benefit from Edward’s death—that is, if anything should happen to my client. And somebody’s already taken a couple of stabs at seeing to it John won’t be breathing long enough to claim his inheritance.”
“Precisely what is it that’s supposed to have occurred this second time?”
I filled him in on Saturday’s almost-hit-and-run.
“I don’t imagine there were any witnesses to this latest incident, either.”
“Well, the whole thing happened so quickly.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Listen, Desiree, that guy’s life is in no more danger than my aunt Tillie’s.” And with this declaration Fielding served himself another donut.
“Why are you so certain he made up the attacks?”
“Let’s start with the critical fact that Edward Sharp stood between Lander and piles and piles of dough.” He didn’t pause long enough for me to voice a protest. “Trust me, those ‘attacks’ are nothing more than a lame attempt to persuade us to look elsewhere for Sharp’s killer.”
“You can’t possibly know for certain that John’s lying.” I was so frustrated I was almost shouting the words. “Why won’t you at least consider that one of the other relatives in line for the money might have tried to get rid of him?”
Being at his most pigheaded just then, Fielding answered with an extremely irritating, “Because they didn’t.”
“I don’t see how you can be so quick to discount that someone could have been bent on taking both men out of the running. I mean, once the first murder is behind you, it’s not nearly as difficult to commit a second.”
“No kidding. And where did you get that?”
“From Hercule Poirot.”
“You and your Agatha Christie!” Fielding muttered. But for a moment a little smile played at the corners of his mouth. After which he told me soberly, “Look, don’t think we just zeroed
in on your client and left it at that. We questioned everyone who might have had a reason, however remote, for wanting Sharp dead. And this is in spite of our having pretty strong evidence from the very beginning that your guy was the perpetrator.” He took a sip of coffee before adding, “And since then new facts have surfaced that make us more convinced than ever that John Lander did his cousin in.” He folded his hands across his chest. “And that’s all I intend to say.”
“What’s your idea of ‘pretty strong evidence’?”
“You got ear trouble, Shapiro? Didn’t you just hear me? The well’s run dry. I’m not about to divulge any more than I already have.”
Which, I didn’t bother to point out, was practically zilch. But, at any rate, it seemed a pretty safe assumption that it was John’s Air Force wings that had initially implicated him in Edward’s death. Still, I couldn’t be positive of this. It was conceivable, I supposed, that they hadn’t been planted at the crime scene after all and that Fielding was referring to something quite apart from the wings. Or—and this is where the situation got tricky—it was also conceivable the killer had placed the pin there for the police to find, but being so small, it had simply been overlooked. In that case, of course, the last thing I wanted to do was provide my old friend with the information that would impel his return to the victim’s home to search for it. I had to proceed very, very carefully now.
“Uh, this alleged evidence of yours. Would it be something of a physical nature?”
“What is this, Twenty Questions?” Fielding bellowed. I glanced around, expecting that everyone in the place would be staring at us. And they were. Moments later Tim was shaking his head slowly from side to side, a look akin to awe on his face. “You’re some piece of work, Shapiro. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You have. Frequently.”
“Good for me. Anyway, listen very closely. You’re not going to get anything more from me on the Sharp homicide. I mean zero, nada. And incidentally, I won’t even bother to ask about the stuff you claimed you’d be imparting this morning.”
“I’ve already told you about the second attack on John.” I fortified myself for the retort with another bite of jelly donut.
“Yeah. And I don’t know how to thank you for sharing that invaluable bit of crap.”
“Umm, would you mind confirming one thing for me?”
“What?” He spat out the word.
I had just concluded that the only way of learning what Tim had on my client was to take the plunge. Or at least get my feet wet. “This . . . umm . . . evidence you have. It’s something you discovered at the scene of the crime, isn’t it?”
Fielding’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”
“There’s an explanation.”
“Go ahead.”
“I have to be sure we’re speaking about the same thing.”
“You want me to tell you exactly what, if anything, we turned up there before you’ll commit yourself, right? Well, that ain’t gonna happen.” He stood then. “I hate to throw you out, Shapiro, but I’m afraid I’ll have to overcome my reluctance, because that’s exactly what I need to do. I’ve got a lot of work waiting for me.”
“Give me two minutes,” I pleaded, trying for my most pathetic expression. “Okay?”
Fielding sat back down. “Two minutes, that’s all—and I’m not kidding. I should have ‘sucker’ tattooed on my butt,” he grumbled.
I had no choice; I moved to the edge of the diving board. “It was a small item that you came across, an item you believe to be the property of my client. Am I correct?”
“You might be.”
I jumped in the water. “Was it a pair of Air Force wings?”
“Jee-sus!” Fielding exploded before the grudging admission. “All right. Yes, it was.”
“Well, those wings disappeared the week before Edward was shot,” I explained, “when the entire family was gathered at the uncle’s house.” I went on to relate how they’d either fallen off or been deliberately removed from the lapel of John’s jacket. “Obviously, when the killer shot Edward, he left that pin behind for you to find, don’t you see?”
“That little scenario, I assume, was presented to you by your client.”
“Yes. But for your enlightenment, Tim, this is a man who hates to think ill of people; it was difficult for him even to imagine anything like that. But in light of the missing pin, along with the NYPD’s attitude when he reported being shot at, he was forced to accept that someone might have done . . . well, exactly what they did.”
Fielding was staring at me as if my mental faculties weren’t all they should be. “You haven’t so much as entertained the possibility that Lander could have concocted that story once he realized he might have lost the pin during the commission of the murder?”
“Absolutely not. But listen, something like this is far from conclusive anyway. Perhaps the pin wasn’t even John’s. I’m sure he wasn’t the only one in the Air Force to earn his wings.”
“The thing had his initials on it, for crying out loud!”
“Oh.” It was a very quiet “oh.”
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ And are you for real? First you go into this whole spiel about somebody’s planting the incriminating item. Then when you realize that isn’t cutting it, you do an instant turnaround and try to sell me on the cockamamie idea that the damn wings aren’t necessarily your client’s at all.” He moved forward in his chair, preparatory to rising again.
I don’t know why—maybe it was my way of making nice—but I leaned over and placed my hand on Fielding’s arm. “If that’s all you have, though . . .”
“It isn’t,” he said tersely. And removing the hand, he got to his feet. “We have enough so that we were able to convince a judge to issue a search warrant. And that’s my last word on the subject.”
Immediately thereafter he was propelling me toward the door.
Chapter 19
I wanted to strangle myself.
Before he could carry out that coerced departure, just for spite I should have reached inside that paper bag and deprived Fielding of one of the remaining chocolate-icing-with-walnut-sprinkles donuts.
No. If I really wanted to be spiteful—and I did—I should have walked off with both of those damn things.
I was ticked, very ticked, about Fielding’s refusal to let me in on what other evidence he had against my client—besides the pin, I’m talking about. Plus, I’d intended to make some attempt to learn what he was looking for at John’s apartment the other night—and whether or not he’d located it. But before I had a chance to say word one about that, my good friend had practically tossed me out into the street.
Well, I decided as I hailed the cab that would take me to the office, I should probably derive some consolation from the fact that my client was still a free man. And really, I reasoned then, did I need a better indicator than this that Fielding’s search had failed to turn up what he had been hoping it would?
It wasn’t long, however, before I went back to my fuming. After all, hadn’t I gone to see Fielding in good faith, figuring we’d pool our information? (Yes, at that moment I actually had the chutzpah to view my pumping expedition in this light.)
Okay, have it your way, Tim, I threatened in my head. But just wait until I make some progress with this thing. I won’t be so quick to share with you, either.
There’s nothing like having a mature, professional attitude, is there?
Jackie’s greeting was unusually friendly. “Hi, Dez. How did it go?” she inquired, all smiles. “I hope you had a successful meeting with what’s-his-name—Fielding.”
“Not very,” I groused. “He was kind enough to let me know that I had more to worry about than I figured. But the reason for this, he didn’t deign to inform me.”
“The bastard,” Jackie muttered sympathetically. “Maybe he’s only trying to get your goat, though.”
“I wish I thought so—but I don’t.”
“All right. But if New York’s Finest coul
d manage to uncover anything that important, you will, too.” I was still grinning at the way her upper lip curled as she uttered the words “New York’s Finest,” when she concluded with “And what’s more, unlike those dunderheads, you’ll put the correct interpretation on whatever it is.”
Well, this was a real departure for Jackie, who’s usually quite supportive of the NYPD. Even with regard to those incidents where the cops were found to have employed excessive force, she never once, to my recollection, made a blanket indictment of the entire police department; she always restricted her criticisms to the specific individuals involved. But apparently now that she considered herself in my debt, Jackie wanted to leave no doubt that she was 110 percent in my corner.
“Anyway, forget about the investigation for a couple of hours, will you?” she ordered. “I’m taking you someplace special for lunch today—and don’t give me any of that garbage about not being able to spare the time away from your notes.”
“Oh, Jackie. That’s not necessary. I didn’t really do anything yesterday, honestly. I simply dialed the phone and behaved in my normal abnormally nosy manner. You certainly don’t have to reward me for acting like myself.”
“Maybe not, but I want to. So stop giving me a hard time.” There was a note of finality in her tone.
I realized then that I’d neglected to advise Jackie of this afternoon’s meeting with Trudie Lander, an oversight that before my Derwin revelations would definitely have earned me a demerit or two. “I, uh, just remembered,” I confessed. “I have a two-thirty appointment in Greenwich Village with Mrs. Lander.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the new and improved (if only temporarily) Jackie. “I know you’ve been up to your ears lately. But I suppose we should postpone lunch—we’d feel too rushed. Come to think of it, though, it’s probably better that you’re tied up. I’d prefer dinner, anyway, wouldn’t you?” Clearly, no answer was expected, because she went right on. “If you’re not free tonight, we’ll do it as soon as you can make it. Have you ever been to the Union Square Cafe?” she asked, referring to a restaurant downtown that’s consistently rated one of the most popular in Manhattan—often the most popular.
Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair Page 11