Flesh and Blood

by James Neal Harvey

  Returning with the drink, she sat down across from him in one of the blocky chairs. “So? What do you want to know? I’ve already told the police everything that happened. There were two officers and I gave them a statement. You’ve seen their report?”

  “Yes, I have. But there are a few points I want to go over with you.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  He thought about getting out his notebook, then decided against it, not wanting to put her on guard. And anyway, there wasn’t much she’d tell him that he was likely to forget. “I understand you were writing an article on the senator.”

  “Yes. I’d been working on it for weeks, off and on. The project kept getting more and more ambitious. We’d even begun to think of turning it into a book.”

  “We?”

  “The senator and I. The more we talked, the more great material he kept bringing out. He was a fascinating man. I’d never met anyone with so much vitality, so much … mental energy. Certainly never anyone with his charisma.”

  “How did you get the assignment?”

  “I was introduced to him when I was in Palm Beach, working on something else. I told him I was interested in doing an article on him and he said to call him.”

  “You must have very good credentials.”

  She crossed her legs. “Outstanding.”

  “Have you always worked free-lance?”

  “No. I started at Vogue. Or Vague, as we called it. I was one of those naive kids they hire right out of college, honored to be working for a famous magazine. As soon as I could, I moved over to Vanity Fair, and then eventually I realized I could make a lot more by selling my stuff to the highest bidder.”

  “You write an article and then sell it?”

  “I usually sell an editor on the subject I have in mind and get an advance on that.”

  “Was that the arrangement you had for the piece on the senator?”

  “No.”

  “Why was that different?”

  She shrugged. “I knew there’d be a market for it, so I just went ahead.”

  “You mentioned your ex-husband. Is he in the same business?”

  She drank some of her whiskey. “He’s an investment banker, a vice president with Broderick and Stone.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “It became final in August, but we hadn’t lived together for over a year.”

  “Getting back to the article you were writing on the senator. When you met with him to work on it, was that always in the evening?”

  “Most of the time. His office was quiet then, and he could give the subject his full attention. He had quite a remarkable career, you know. Did more in his lifetime than any five or six ordinary men put together. I think he could have run for President and made it.” A faint smile passed over her lips. “If he hadn’t been so damned stubborn about his ideals, that is.”

  “Tell me about that, and how you handled it in what you were writing.”

  She dragged on the cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray. Then she began relating how Cunningham had always stuck to his principles, even though that had frequently gotten him into difficulties politically; how he’d struggled not only with his avowed enemies and with one governmental body after another but with members of his own party, as well.

  Ben kept his gaze fixed on her, as if he was absorbed in her words, but what he really wanted was simply to keep her talking. It gave him an opportunity to gauge her, to get more of a sense of what she was all about. If there had been an affair going on between her and Cunningham, what he saw made it easy to understand what attracted the old man. She practically radiated sex appeal.

  But what would have been the turn-on for her? Was it the senator’s power, supposedly the ultimate aphrodisiac? Or something else? Money, maybe?

  Or had the relationship been strictly professional, after all? And for that matter, was it really so important? Put an end to the rumors, Oppenheimer had said. Button this thing up.

  So why not do just that and forget it?

  Because the DA also wanted to know the truth. And because Ben was a highly skilled investigator. Almost twenty years on the job had programmed his nose to work the way it did. He smelled something here, something more than Silk’s perfume. And whether he would admit it to himself or not, what the TV reporter had told him had piqued his curiosity. “What happened last night with the senator?”

  She sipped her drink. “We were sitting in his office and he was reading a draft of something I’d written from our previous session. The woman who works for the foundation was there, too, Ardis Merritt. She was on the other side of the room, doing something of her own. All of a sudden, he made this awful choking noise.”

  “As if he was literally choking?”

  “Yes, sort of.” She shuddered. “It was terrible. I’d never seen anyone die before.”

  “You knew he was dying?”

  “No. That is, not then. I had no idea what was wrong with him. We both jumped up and went to him, but then he fell out of his chair onto the floor. We pulled off his tie and tried to get him some air. Ardis even gave him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But nothing seemed to help. We were sort of—well, not hysterical, but pretty upset. Frightened. She called security and the guard came up. Then she called the police, and after that, the family.”

  “You went out and got a pillow to put under his head. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you take his shoes off?”

  Her eyes flickered, the movement as quick as a camera’s shutter, but Ben caught it.

  “Just trying to make him more comfortable,” she said.

  “You thought he’d be more comfortable without shoes?”

  “Sure. So what? I wanted to do anything I could.”

  “Was that after you got the pillow?”

  “I think it was before. What difference does it make?”

  He opened the trap wider. “From what I’ve been able to learn, his clothing was in disarray. It wasn’t just that his tie was off … and his shoes.”

  She became exasperated. “I told you, we were trying to get him some air. Maybe we undid some buttons or whatever. Is that so surprising when somebody’s having a heart attack right in front of you?”

  “No, but why unzip his pants?”

  The eyes flickered again. “I didn’t—I don’t know. Maybe Ardis did that.”

  He cocked his head, looking at her. “Your stories don’t jibe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some of the things she told me don’t square with what you’re saying now.”

  “What things? What did she say?”

  “She gave me a very detailed description of what went on, and it’s different from what you’re saying.”

  Silk’s tone took on a hard edge. “Maybe she has a better memory than I do.”

  “How could that be? You’re a trained journalist, aren’t you?”

  “What are you getting at, Lieutenant?”

  “You were having an affair with him, weren’t you?”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “You heard me. You were, weren’t you?”

  “How dare you say such a thing?”

  “Answer the question.”

  She gulped the rest of her whiskey and put the empty glass down on the table beside her chair. “This is outrageous.”

  “Is it?”

  “It most certainly is. You come barging in here—”

  “I didn’t. I asked to see you and you invited me up. And you still haven’t told me. Did you have intercourse with him last night?”

  Her mouth opened, then snapped shut.

  “Come on,” Ben said. “What about it? As you’ve probably gathered by now, I’ve already picked up a lot of information. Why don’t you tell me what really went on?”

  She didn’t bite. Hazel eyes bright with anger, she said, “Listen, if you insist on making these wild accusations, I’m going to call my lawyer.”


  “Go right ahead.”

  She didn’t do that, either. Instead, she stood up. “Get out of here.”

  “Sure, I was just leaving. I got the information I wanted, anyway.” He rose to his feet and went back through the foyer to the front door, carrying his raincoat.

  When he stepped out into the hallway, she slammed the door behind him. Waiting for the elevator, he put on the coat, and as he did, he heard her snap the locks and drop a chain into place on the door.

  11

  Ben left the lobby and walked back toward his car, thinking maybe this thing wasn’t all so cut-and-dried, after all. The lie he’d caught Silk in was a small one, but it had been one she had no reason to tell—if she’d been giving him a truthful account, that is. Instead, she’d made a big deal of the business with the shoes, when all she’d had to do was say she was flustered and didn’t remember.

  Then when he’d thrown his clumsy curve about the old man’s pants being unzipped, she’d flared up. For what reason? Because she was worried that what she said might contradict what Merritt had told him? Why would she care whether it did or didn’t?

  And when he’d tried bluffing her with his accusation that she’d been having an affair with Cunningham, she hadn’t answered directly but had lost her temper instead.

  Why?

  Only one answer made sense: because she was hiding the truth—and not just about the shoes or the state of Cunningham’s fly. Which meant there was indeed something to the innuendos about her relationship with the senator, which in turn would mean that Ardis Merritt had lied, as well.

  If all this was an attempt at a cover-up, who else might be in on it? Did the family know? But even if they did, even if the old man and Silk had been having sex and Merritt and the Cunninghams wanted that to remain a secret, was that a crime?

  Don’t be ridiculous, Ben told himself. Giving a false statement to the police in these circumstances would be nothing more than a misdemeanor, according to the penal code, and adultery was about on the same level as spitting on the sidewalk.

  And if the family had taken steps to cover up whatever had gone on before the police arrived, who could blame them? Did they need some tawdry scandal at this point—a smutty story for the media to gorge on?

  Nevertheless, Ben had already stumbled across more than he thought he would. What else might he find?

  This time, he’d call ahead. He used a pay phone on the west side of the street, across from Silk’s apartment house. Dr. Phelps’s secretary at the Manhattan Medical Center said the doctor wouldn’t be in his office until later in the day, but if Lieutenant Tolliver would call back, she was sure an appointment could be arranged. He thanked her and hung up.

  His watch said it was already midafternoon, but he didn’t need the watch to know that; his stomach was rumbling. Because he had time and because it wouldn’t be too far from the hospital, he decided on a restaurant he knew in Yorkville. Getting back into the Ford, he drove over to First Avenue and north to Seventy-eighth Street, then swung down Second and parked in front of Csarda, one of the last of the old-time Hungarian restaurants left in the city.

  The aroma alone was enough to convince you that you were starving. Sweet onions, paprika, garlic, roasting peppers, spiced veal, with a top note of Tokay, the great red wine of Eastern Europe. Even though it was long past lunchtime, a number of patrons were lingering over dessert and coffee.

  Ben sat at a table in the dining room and ordered stuffed peppers and chicken paprikash. He’d been promising himself a lunch somewhere up in the country, and this would be the next best thing. In fact, it was one of his better ideas.

  As he ate, he tried to recall whether he’d ever been inside the Manhattan Medical Center but decided he hadn’t. He knew it well enough by reputation, however, as one of the best private hospitals in New York. It was famous for its excellence in cardiology and cardiac care, the department Phelps headed. And it was also known for obstetrics and gynecology—which made it a favorite place for well-to-do women to have babies.

  When he finished, he paid his bill and then called Phelps’s office once more. The secretary told him to come ahead but cautioned that he’d have to wait until the doctor finished his rounds. Ben said that would be fine.

  After that, he telephoned his office in the Sixth precinct station house and spoke to his second in command, Sgt. Ed Flynn. The sergeant told him Captain Brennan had called to say what Tolliver was working on and also that Chief Houlihan had announced that a special team of detectives was investigating the circumstances surrounding Senator Cunningham’s death. Flynn then gave Ben a rundown on cases his squad was dealing with, including the shooting of a gypsy cab-driver on Christopher Street.

  The robbery-murder had taken place a week ago and there were no suspects, which meant it was unlikely there ever would be. Fewer than half the homicide cases in the city were ever solved, and of those that were, a suspect most often was arrested within a day. If any more time than that went by, the result would usually be just one more moldering file jacket that would stay open forever.

  There was also some good news. A push-in rapist the cops had been after for months was caught in a stakeout, and a street whore had given them a tip on a burglar who’d been operating with great success in the boutiques on Sheridan Square. Flynn said detectives were looking for the guy now. Also George Garrity’s wife had had a baby, a boy.

  Ben said nice going on the last three counts and to congratulate Garrity. He told the sergeant he’d wrap up what he was doing in another day, two at the most. He’d check in again tomorrow, he said, then hung up.

  It was a pleasant fall day and he was in no rush, so he walked to the medical center. It was on Seventy-seventh Street, off Park, a neat brick building that didn’t look much different from the surrounding apartment houses. There were even window boxes on the front of it, and although the plane trees lining the street were naked, red geraniums in the boxes had so far survived the autumn frosts.

  A receptionist told him where Dr. Phelps’s office was and he followed her directions through a maze of corridors. Nurses and residents were scurrying about and now and then he had to step aside as attendants wheeled a gurney past with a patient aboard.

  For all that, the place was nothing like some of the other hospitals in the city. Bellevue, for example, always looked as if a bomb had gone off a few minutes earlier, leaving in its wake people who were minus limbs, or eyes, or bowels, and frequently their lives.

  Phelps’s secretary sat at a desk in a small waiting room outside the physician’s inner sanctum. She turned out to be what the sound of her telephone voice had led Ben to picture, red-cheeked and grandmotherly. She invited him to sit down, saying she didn’t know how long the doctor would be.

  He settled into a chair and began thumbing through well-worn magazines, finally getting hooked on one of The New Yorker’s “Annals of Crime” articles, this one about a parole officer being blown away by an ex-mental patient who’d been released after psychiatrists had declared him harmless.

  No surprise there, Ben thought. Homicidal psychopaths were hardly ever first-time offenders. They all had long histories of freaky conduct, often torturing animals or people for years before graduating to murder. Moreover, none of the psychos he’d dealt with had ever been cured of their propensity to abuse children or commit rape-murders or carry out whatever their personal specialty might be. Instead, they’d merely learned how to convince doctors and parole boards they were now ready to become model citizens. So they’d been turned loose and then had gone on chalking up scores.

  An hour went by, and the secretary announced she was leaving. “But stay right where you are,” she told Ben. “Dr. Phelps will be along eventually.” She put on her coat and hat and carrying a shopping bag walked out the door, bidding him good night.

  After another thirty minutes, he looked at his watch and wondered whether he wasn’t wasting his time. Cunningham was dead and his physician had signed the death certificate. Despite Ben�
�s suspicions after talking to Jessica Silk, it was all over but the sobbing, which would conclude a few days from now with the service at Riverside Church, followed by interment in the family plot, wherever that might be.

  For a moment, he debated whether to tell Oppenheimer that he now suspected the rumors of what had gone on between the senator and Jessica Silk might be true. Although the basis for his thinking so was admittedly flimsy. And even if the rumors were true, so what? Finally, he decided it would be better to state his suspicion and to recount Silk’s furious denial than have it get back to the DA via some other route. Through Silk’s lawyer, for example. Therefore Ben would report everything, including his hunch, and let Oppenheimer handle it however he chose.

  What Phelps might add, if he ever showed up, was unlikely to be of much value.

  So why not get the hell out of here? Ben still might be able to hunt up a female friend he could interest in dinner. Despite the splendid meal he’d consumed a few hours ago, he was getting hungry again. And it would be nice to have some feminine companionship.

  A short, stocky man with neatly trimmed white hair entered the office. He was wearing a pale green tunic, with a stethoscope dangling from his neck, and silver-rimmed spectacles were perched on the end of his nose. “I’m Dr. Phelps,” he said. “Understand you want to see me.”

  Ben stood up and shook hands. “Yes, if you have some time.” He got out the case containing his ID and shield and flipped it open.

  Phelps didn’t bother to glance at it. “Been a busy day,” he said, “but I can spare a few minutes.”

  The office was good-sized yet simply furnished, with a desk and chairs and a few filing cabinets. A large light box was mounted on one wall and the usual array of framed diplomas covered most of another. Phelps led Ben to a visitor’s chair, then looked briefly through a stack of phone messages before sitting at his desk.

  “You’re here about the death of Senator Cunningham,” the physician said.

  “That’s correct.”

  “On whose authority, and for what purpose?”