“Marisol had done her part,” I said, “but now she was beginning to have second thoughts. She’d grown up hearing about Kukarov’s evil deeds, but the closest she’d ever been to Latvia was a weekend in East Hampton, and he’d done the bulk of his scourging before she was born. And what had she done? She’d betrayed a trust, for one thing, and she might have imperiled Mapes’s other clandestine clients, men who may have run afoul of the law but who had done nothing to her, or to her fellow Latvians.
“So she did what a lot of people do when they’re feeling disturbed. She went out and had a couple of drinks.”
Wally Hemphill went into a quick huddle with his client. “She’s over twenty-one,” he told the room. “If she wants to have a drink it’s her business.”
“I never said it wasn’t.”
“Well,” he said, “I object to this whole line of questioning, and I’m advising my client not to answer any more questions.”
“I haven’t asked any.”
“If you do, I reserve the right to object.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, but what good did it do? When I opened them, everybody was still there. This next part was tricky, and I hoped he’d shut up so I could get it right.
“She lives in Hell’s Kitchen, but she didn’t want to go where she might run into someone she knew. So she went east and south a short distance, to a place someone had recommended. A nice place, some of you may know it. She went in and had a drink, and then a man came and bought her another drink, and the next thing she knew she was in bed in her own apartment with a man on top of her, and—”
“Objection!”
I glared at him, and he shrugged apologetically. “You know,” I said, “you’re not in court, but if you were I’d hold you in contempt.”
“I’m sorry, Bernie.”
“Just keep a lid on it,” I said. “She came out of a blackout, and she tried to make the guy stop, but she couldn’t, and then she went back into a blackout, and when she came to hours later he was gone, and so was a piece of jewelry Doc Mapes had given her.”
“The necklace,” Mapes said, and colored deeply when eyes turned toward him. I don’t think he meant to say anything.
“The necklace,” Marisol confirmed. “The beautiful ruby necklace you gave me, that I loved so much. I woke up and it was gone.”
“And what did you remember?”
“At first,” she said, “I hardly remembered anything. I remembered him buying me a drink, and I remembered waking up and…and trying to fight him off, to make him stop what he was doing. It was horrible.”
“And did your memory come back?”
I saw Wally lean forward, and I was afraid he was going to cite me for leading the witness. But he got himself in check.
“Parts of it,” she said. “I was so upset about the book of photographs, and I remember that I talked to him about it. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I told him things I should have kept to myself.” She frowned. “I don’t understand it. I didn’t have that much to drink. I never get like that, not on two drinks.”
“You were drugged,” I said.
“I thought maybe that’s what happened.”
“The man who drugged you,” I said, “and went home with you, and raped you, and stole your necklace. Do you know who he is?”
“I don’t know his name. I never saw him before that night, and I never saw him since.” She paused, and her timing was right on the money. “Until today, in this room.”
“Could you point him out?”
She got shakily to her feet, hesitated, touched her forefinger to her lower lip, trembled, and then thrust her hand dramatically in the direction of William Johnson. “Him,” she said. “He did it.”
You’d think the dumb son of a bitch would have seen it coming. After all, it was his MO, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to patent it. But he was at a distinct disadvantage, in that he knew for a fact he’d never seen the girl before. With her Northern hair and eyes and her complexion out of the warm South, she wasn’t someone he could have seen and forgotten, and he’d certainly remember her if he’d taken her home. He might not know where she was going with all of this, but there was no way she could be coming in his direction.
And here she was, sticking her little finger straight at him.
“No way, man. No fuckin’ way. I never saw this chick before in my life.”
“Really,” I said. “The bar’s called Parsifal’s. Do you know it?”
“I was there maybe once or twice.”
“Ever take a woman home?”
“Maybe. But not this broad. I told you, I never saw her.”
“Ever put something in a drink to improve your chances?”
“Hey, c’mon,” he said, and flexed some muscles. “You think I need any help?”
“Then you’re saying you didn’t slip Rohypnol to Marisol Maris?”
“Is that the chick’s name? No, I never slipped her nothing. Not what you just said, and not what she says I slipped her.”
“In fact you never saw her before.”
“Never.” He changed expressions, trying for sincere. “What happened to her’s horrible, but I had nothin’ to do with it. You got the wrong guy.”
There was a silence, and Sigrid waited a beat before picking up her cue. “Oh, William,” she said, exasperated. “You’re so full of shit it’s coming out your pores.”
He stared.
“I’ve seen you operate,” she said. “You’re quite the stud, showing off your muscles and chatting up the ladies. You buy them one drink and the next thing I know they’re out the door with you. I figured you had a hell of a line, or maybe you were oozing some kind of sex appeal that I couldn’t see. I noticed that some of them looked a little woozy on the way out, but I just assumed lust was interfering with their motor skills. It never occurred to me that you were feeding them Roofies.”
“This is crazy,” he said.
“I’ll say it is.” To me she said, “He hit on me a few nights ago. I brushed him off, or it would have been my turn to wake up sleeping in the wet spot with my Diamonique earrings nowhere to be found. You came in the night before last, William. Remember? You tried to pick up two girls at once, and I think maybe they switched drinks on you, because you got a fit of the blind staggers and barely made it out the door.”
You could see him processing the information. So that’s what happened—the bitches had switched drinks with him, and next thing he knew he was coming to in an alley, covered with his own vomit, with his cash and cards gone and an aching groin that only bothered him on days ending in a Y.
And there were people in the room he might have seen before. The brunette, for instance, dressed for success, her hair up. He’d pulled her out of someplace, and it could have been Parsifal’s. And even I looked vaguely familiar, like maybe we hung out in some of the same bars. But this chick going on about her necklace and the pictures her cousin stole, he knew damn well he never saw her before in his life.
But I was just guessing. I couldn’t really read his mind. For all I knew, he was thinking about super-setting bent-over rows with reverse-grip chins, and what that might do for his lats.
“You went home with her necklace,” I said, “not to mention the warm glow that comes from an evening spent doing the Lord’s work. And when you woke up you thought about the story she’d told, about a book full of photos of men who’d bought new faces in an effort to keep the past from catching up with them. You figured that kind of information ought to be worth something to the right people, and so you picked up the phone and called your Uncle Mike.”
His jaw dropped, but I didn’t care if it hit the floor and went through to the basement. I was through with him for now, and turned to Michael Quattrone, who’d been following the proceedings with interest. “Your nephew called you,” I said, “and you saw an opportunity. You put the word out, and somebody picked up something about two people named Rogovin in an apartment at Third Avenue a
nd 34th Street.”
I’m not sure what my next sentence would have been, but Quattrone stopped me there by raising one well-manicured hand six inches into the air. “You put on a very good show,” he said judiciously. “It’s instructive and entertaining at the same time.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’ve got one thing wrong. My nephew never mentioned anything about Mapes and his photographs.”
“You’re saying you were unaware of them?”
“I was aware of them,” he said. “There’s no end of things of which the observant man becomes aware. But I never heard a word on the subject from my nephew.” He looked over at Johnson, with something a few degrees cooler than avuncular affection. “My nephew. The son of my younger sister and the man she picked out all by herself and married.”
“He didn’t call you?”
“I guess he didn’t need anything,” Quattrone said. “He only calls when he needs something. Money, a lawyer. Something along those lines.”
“Uncle Mike—”
“Shut up, Billy.” To me he said, “You may have heard of a man named John Mullane.”
“The name’s familiar.”
“He’s also known as Whitey Mullane. You watch America’s Most Wanted?”
Religiously, hoping I won’t see myself on it. “Jersey City,” I said. “Or was it Newark? He ran rackets there for years, and at the same time he was working with the FBI. And now he’s running away from a murder indictment—”
“Four counts, plus other charges.”
“—and they update his profile every few months, and John Walsh says how we need to catch this coward, and they never do.”
“And they won’t,” Quattrone said, “as long as they go on looking for the face he doesn’t have anymore, thanks to our friend here.” A nod to Mapes. “The man’s an idiot, but he does good work. Whitey Mullane was like a father to me, I’ve known him since I was an altar boy, and I have to tell you, if I hadn’t seen the Before picture I wouldn’t have known the After picture was him.”
“You saw the pictures.”
“You know,” he said, “I don’t recall saying that. As I remember, I spoke a sentence with an ‘if’ in it.”
“So you did. Well, last Wednesday some men paid a call on the Rogovins, or the Lyles, or whatever we want to call them. They overpowered the doorman, left him immobile in the parcel room, and went upstairs, where the Lyles opened the door for them. Then the Lyles opened the safe for them, probably at gunpoint. I don’t know why the Lyles got themselves a heavy-duty Mosler safe. They didn’t need all that just to provide a short-term home for an outdated college textbook. My guess is it was in conjunction with another enterprise of theirs, and they’re dead, so it hardly matters.
“Because the visitors got the book, and in return for their cooperation the Lyles got two bullets in the back of the head. Meanwhile the doorman, wrapped up in duct tape, suffocated. Three people were dead, and the book was gone.
“And wouldn’t you know it, even while they were going about their business, the long arm of coincidence was reaching to take me by the collar. It turned itself into the long arm of the law, which I’d call a familiar quotation, even though Bartlett doesn’t seem to think so. Here’s the coincidence. On the night in question, I was taking the air in the same neighborhood where the Lyles lived and died. Half a dozen different security cameras recorded my passing. It doesn’t matter why I was there, I had a perfect right to be there, but coincidentally enough I was once convicted of burglary, and my presence on the scene was enough to induce that gentleman there”—I nodded toward Ray, and they looked at him—“to place me under arrest. And that gentleman there”—I nodded at Wally—“secured my speedy release. But by then the word was out, and people had reason to think I might be involved.”
I looked at Michael Quattrone. “If I were to ask you a hypothetical question, do you think it might be possible for you to answer it?”
He smiled without moving his lips. “It might,” he said.
“If someone you knew pulled the home invasion on 34th Street,” I said, “and if the Lyles let them in and opened the safe for them, why did they have to shoot them?”
“That’s easy,” he said. “They didn’t.”
Thirty-Nine
Of course we’re speaking hypothetically,” Michael Quattrone said. His eyes swept the room, pausing on their way to make brief but significant eye contact with Ray Kirschmann and Wally Hemphill. “And, as we’ve been reminded, this is not a courtroom. No one’s taking down what’s being said, and I would hope no one’s wearing a wire, but even if there’s a record kept, we’re speaking hypothetically.”
“Of course.”
“In that case,” he said, “let’s suppose a certain person was to learn that an old friend of his had photos of his new face floating around, up for sale to the highest bidder. And suppose he found out where the photos were, and when the bidder was going to show up to finalize the transaction. And suppose he sent some friends of his to show up before the bidder, and shortstop the whole operation.”
“Taking the photos by force,” I said, “before the other party could arrive to pay for them.”
“Something like that,” he agreed. “Now, if anything like that happened, I imagine this certain person’s friends would have immobilized the doorman, so as to come and go unannounced. And I imagine the people in the apartment—you’ve been calling them the Lyles—”
“Or the Rogovins. As you prefer.”
“Let’s call them the Rogovins, then. It’s such a stereotype otherwise, isn’t it? Criminals with foreign-sounding names that end in a vowel. Like Lyle.” Once again he managed to smile without moving his lips. “Let’s say Mr. Rogovin heard a knock on the door and opened it, thinking he was about to get rich. A couple of guys came in, and as soon as they opened their mouths he knew they weren’t the men he was expecting. But what could he do about it? He opened the safe for them, and they took the book and the money.”
“Wait a minute,” Ray said. “What money?”
He chose his words carefully. “I would have to assume there would have been money,” he said. “Why lock a chemistry textbook in a safe? But if you already had a sum of money in there, you might as well put the book in with it.”
“How much money?”
“I can only estimate. Perhaps as much as twenty-one thousand dollars. Or as little as nineteen thousand.”
“In round numbers,” I said, “twenty thousand.”
“In round numbers. Perhaps the high bidder paid some earnest money in advance, to bind the transaction. Perhaps the money was the proceeds of some other enterprise. I’m sure the men who took it thought of it as a welcome if unexpected bonus.”
“My original question—”
“Was why did they kill the Rogovins. My answer was that they didn’t. They left them trussed with tape, which held them while they had a quick look around the apartment to see if it held anything else worth taking. It would also keep the Rogovins incapacitated while they quit the building and left the area. After that, what threat did the two of them represent? They could hardly file a police report. In any case, they didn’t know the identities of the men who robbed them. Killing them would just generate heat, and to no purpose.”
“And the doorman? He suffocated before the cops found him.”
“That was unfortunate,” Quattrone said. “It was an accident, and it should never have happened.” His eyes flicked ever so briefly toward the doorway, where one of his goons was looking at the floor with the fascination of someone who had never seen carpet before. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, “if the person responsible didn’t very much regret what happened.”
“Someone shot those two people,” I said. “They were all taped up, and they’d been shot in the head. If it wasn’t your hypothetical men—”
“It wasn’t.”
“—then who was it?”
“Bern?” I turned at Carolyn’s voice. “The
high bidder,” she said. “He was on his way over, right?”
“Of course,” I said. “There was a second party of visitors to the apartment on East 34th Street. The doorman was still hors de combat, so all they had to do was walk in and go upstairs. They’d have found the door unlocked and the safe wide open and the occupants all taped up. Maybe they took the tape off one of their mouths long enough to get some questions answered. They wouldn’t have liked the answers, wouldn’t have been happy to go away without the book of photos, and without a chance of recovering the twenty grand they’d paid in front. Whether that was half in advance or payment in full, it was a big chunk of dough, and there was no way to get it back.”
I could feel eyes staring at me, and they were Georgi Blinsky’s. “You were the high bidder,” I told him. “You showed up to keep the appointment. When the Lyles couldn’t supply either the photographs or the money, you executed them and left.”
“You can prove nothing,” he said. “You have no evidence and no witnesses. When all of this was taking place, I was with large party at Georgian nightclub on Oriental Boulevard. Many people will swear to this.”
“I’m sure they will. Why kill them?”
He looked at me, as if he found the question disappointing. Then he said, “No book, no money. So? No witnesses, either. But I was with friends, in nightclub. I can prove this, and you can prove nothing.”
“The next thing that happened,” I said, “is that my apartment was broken into. It had already been searched by the police, but the men who broke in probably didn’t know that. My doorman was trussed up and locked in the parcel room, the same as the Lyles’ doorman, so it seems safe to assume the same people were responsible.”
“I can see where you’d assume that,” Michael Quattrone said.
“They tore the place apart. What do you suppose they were looking for?”
“The missing photos,” he said without hesitation. “Whoever sent them must have heard about these photos of a missing Russian, and none of the pictures in that chemistry textbook looked like they could have been that man. And there were pages missing from the book, as if somebody had torn them out. Four pages, which would work out to one set of four photos.”
The Burglar on the Prowl Page 26