“Even better. When Marco Fellini went to Dr. Forrest and was helped for the occasional double vision that had bothered him for years, he decided to send his two assistants.”
“Very thoughtful,” Zoran said.
“Marco Fellini had an ulterior motive––his interest in archery. It’s part of his aim to make his business unique. The glitterati love someone who’s different. What other art dealer has an archery run on his rooftop and assistants who are archers? But even though the two women had regular archery lessons, they weren’t improving. He asked if vision therapy would help and Dr. Forrest said that if either of the young women had a vision imbalance, it could be the reason their archery wasn’t improving. It turned out that one had serious headaches, not migraines but quite frequent, troubling episodes, and the other had trouble focusing. Vision therapy helped them both and their archery improved. Marco Fellini was so impressed, he decided to fund a program for optometrists to test the kids at P.S. 41. If any of the youngsters had learning or behavior problems triggered by vision imbalances, they could go to the SUNY clinic for help. He covered all the costs and wanted regular reports, so my boss sent me to the Fellini house a few times, though usually I met with his wife, Sophia.”
Brian, who’d been listening carefully, said, “On a first-name basis, eh? Your idea or hers?”
“Hers,” Yoko answered.
“Damn democratic for a plutocrat,” Brian said. “Bet the Fellinis never had to think about having enough money for retirement.”
“Marco Fellini was a wealthy and generous man,” Zoran said, blandly ignoring Brian’s comment about retirement.
“Yup, you got that right, Zoran,” Brian said. “Hey, Yoko, you heard about the archery program Fellini organized?”
“Another program?” Yoko said. “I know he was an art dealer, right, and a director at Sotheby’s? His picture was often in the papers, record-breaking sales at auctions, charity fund-raisers, that sort of thing.”
“Right,” Brian said. “But he kinda adopted the police as one of his charities. He paid for archery classes for everyone at all the precincts in Manhattan. He said archery was good for mental and physical focus and relaxing because bows and arrows are so different from guns. Damned if he wasn’t right, it does take your mind off the daily grind.”
The Fellinis’ elegant corner brownstone on Gramercy Park South came into view. Journalists and paparazzi were milling around outside the building. The Fellini murder was serious news, big enough to knock the crash of a hot-air balloonist off the interest list. A police van was trying to back out through the mass of men and women and Brian waited until its driver finally swung clear of the crowd then carefully angled the car into the space the van had left, grumbling all the while at the media hounds who pressed dangerously close. Camera flashes went off like firecrackers, dazzling their eyes.
“Why the hell are they taking our pictures?” Brian said. “Idiots. Sorry you two have to wade through them. Me, I’m due back at the one-three,” and he drove off as soon as Yoko and Zoran left the car. Probably needed to get back to his full-time job planning his retirement, Yoko thought.
Vinnie Baldoni, the uniform at the front door of the Fellinis’ brownstone, grinned when he saw Yoko.
“Dan’ll be surprised,” Vinnie said. “He doesn’t know Monk asked the chief to have you join the team. They’re in the parlor with the Dragon Lady.”
So this was where Dan’s case––and Dan––were.
Zoran said, “Officer Baldoni, my name is Zeissing. Detective Zoran Zeissing. I am neither a monk nor a character in a television show. I do not understand why you have so much trouble remembering my name.”
Yoko shook her head. Vinnie, the man responsible for all the nicknames at the station, including “Monk” for Zoran, had wasted no time finding a suitable one for Sophia Fellini. “Dragon Lady” was remarkably accurate. A wealthy and drop-dead gorgeous dragon lady. Yoko had yet to discover what nickname Vinnie had given her, Dan flat-out refused to tell her. One day he would let it slip, or someone would. Hell could freeze before she’d ask, she’d find it out one way or another, no holds barred.
In the hallway, another uniformed officer, a stranger to Yoko, stood outside the small living room that was tucked away from the rest of the ground floor, which was used for business entertaining. He recognized Zoran, stared hard at Yoko then nodded for them to go in.
Sophia Fellini was seated on an opulent brocade sofa. Mark Sanders, Chief of Detectives, sat in a matching chair opposite the sofa, carefully cleaning his glasses on an immaculate handkerchief. Dan Riley sat in a matching chair to the chief’s left, also facing Sophia Fellini. The elegant socialite, impressively groomed as always, wore a striking green silk outfit, simple but expensive. Her countenance was grim but she managed a miniscule nod at Yoko.
“Mrs. Fellini, this is Detective Zeissing, Detective Riley’s partner, and our Civilian Consultant, Dr. Kamimura,” Mark Sanders said by way of introduction.
“Yes, I know Dr. Kamimura,” Sophia Fellini said. “We’re on a first-name basis.” She smiled, a brief smile empty of warmth.
Chief of Detectives Sanders rose from his chair, tucked his spectacles carefully into the inside vest pocket of his herringbone sport coat, and bowed slightly to his hostess. “Then I’ll leave you in the hands of our top detectives, Mrs. Fellini. If anyone can bring closure to this terrible tragedy, they will. I’ll speak briefly to the reporters gathered outside. I’m sure I can persuade them to disperse. Please, if you have any questions, do call me any time, night or day. Again, my deepest sympathies for your loss.”
He shook the widow’s hand gently, turned and left the room. But not before meeting the eyes of each of his “top detectives,” the message in his determined expression as clear as the gleam on his highly polished lenses: you will find Marco Fellini’s killer. Quickly.
6
Hans Reiniger’s past was akin to a book open on his lap, a story told by Gypsy forebears, told so often he had committed it to memory. The tale gripped him. Its characters and plot formed his own character, drove his own plot. Except that the book wasn’t really written, yet. Up to now, it was oral history passed on by his mother, his adopted grandparents and Gypsy story-tellers, as it had been for the Romani for eight hundred or more years.
He would write it down. His story—his history—needed to be told. His lawyer would make it public. That was all he could do now. The die was cast. Hans opened Word on his MacBook and drafted a cover letter.
Rechtsanwalt Herr Félix Tolliver
Denkmaschinenstrasse 555
4096 Zürich, Schweiz
Herr Tolliver:
As I discussed with you last week, the enclosed envelope is to remain sealed until my death, or the death of Mr. Marco Fellini of Gramercy Park South, New York, NY 10003. When either of those events occur, you are to open the envelope and convey its contents to appropriate legal authorities and to the media.
Sincerely yours,
Hans Reiniger, Lüzern, Schweiz
7
“Before I ask you any questions, Mrs. Fellini, I would like to see the murder scene with Lieutenant Riley and Dr. Kamimura,” Zoran said.
“Murder? You’re calling it murder? Already?” the widow said. “Why would anyone kill Marco? He was generous to a fault. He was respected in the art world and widely admired for his support to charities.” Her voice turned defiant. “You know what George Bernard Shaw said? ‘Is it wise to give a man a pecuniary interest in sawing off your leg?’”
Zoran winced at the thought of someone sawing off a leg, any leg, particularly his.
Lieutenant Riley came to Zoran’s rescue. “I understand what you’re saying, Mrs. Fellini, but believe me, we’ve enough murders to solve without adding your husband’s to our list. We don’t have to go looking for crimes to solve. They find us.”
Sophia Fellini looked at Yoko, shaking her head. “What’s going on, Yoko?”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fellini,” Yok
o said. “What a terrible shock this must be.”
“Please, it’s Sophia, don’t make me feel we’re strangers. Can you stay and talk with me?” The widow’s voice was not even close to its usual commanding decibel.
Out of the corner of her eye, Yoko saw Zoran stray to a side table and start to neaten the magazines piled haphazardly on it. If they didn’t get him focused on the crime, he’d be straightening the art lining the walls, so strong was his compulsion to make things orderly. Before she could say anything, Dan spoke.
“Mrs. Fellini, right now, I need to take Dr. Kamimura and Lieutenant Zeissing up to the site of…er…to the roof, where you found your husband.”
Sophia Fellini gave a tired nod. “Duty calls you, Yoko. Perhaps we can talk later.”
Dan led Yoko and Zoran out of the room and into the hallway. As they progressed up the two flights of stairs, Dan rapidly outlined what he knew of the situation.
“Sophia Fellini found Marco Fellini dead on the roof almost two hours ago. He’d been shot in the back by a hunting arrow, which hit his renal arteries. He bled to death in minutes.”
“You have seen the report from the coroner already?” Zoran asked.
“No, but I heard about it. Dante Nicosian, our best ME, did a fast post-mortem at the Chief’s insistence. Having Dante give up his Sunday…guess that shows how well-connected Marco Fellini is…ah, was. At least with our department.”
“Anyway, the widow Fellini saw her husband go up to the roof at seven and when he didn’t return on schedule––apparently he was a creature of habit and never varied his schedule––she went up to the roof around eight, found him dead, came back downstairs and called 9-1-1.”
“A hunting arrow? Another arrow and this one identified as a hunting arrow.” Zoran said. “What would someone be hunting in New York City? Further, why on earth would Marco Fellini be up on the roof?”
“It’s a flat roof, huge. Two roofs really, the house is a double brownstone,” Dan said. “Fellini built an enclosed run on the roof for archery target practice. He had to get a special permit, probably cost him a bundle and used up a few favors.”
Dan opened the door to the roof. “That’s the archery run.” He pointed to the west corner of the roof. “It’s thirty-five yards long. That heavy wire mesh covers it completely so arrows don’t go astray.”
“This is amazing,” Yoko said, staring around at the garden, which was filled with fragrant masses of flowers and decorative shrubs. The garden sprawled to the edge of the archery enclosure and completely covered the rest of the rooftop. The brownstone’s roof was slightly higher than some of the nearby buildings, and the bird’s-eye view of Manhattan was impressive. She had a clear view of the spire of the iconic Empire State Building piercing the sky at 34th and Fifth Avenue and the nearby row of Gothic Revival buildings that included the Players Club and her old workplace, the National Arts Club, a block or so away at 15 Gramercy Park South.
“I can’t resist,” Yoko said, and walked quickly along one of the pebble paths winding through the garden. She stood admiring the uptown skyline from the north edge of the roof. To her surprise, Zoran followed close behind, cautiously halting a foot or two away from the low parapet that framed all sides of the roof. The two stood in silence, admiring the glittering Chrysler skyscraper, a sleek Art Deco beauty with its not so subtle homage to man’s love affair with the automobile. Years before, Yoko’s father had taken her to the observation deck in the Empire State Building and explained what they could see of Manhattan from their vantage point
“See those eagles?” he pointed to the proud birds gracing the corners of the Chrysler Building’s 61st floor. “They’re the same as the 1929 Chrysler hood ornaments.”
At the age of eight, Yoko had been far more excited at seeing the place where Kong had roared in angry defiance, a weeping Fay Wray clutched in one arm. Now, Yoko’s childhood fascination with the Empire State Building had morphed into an adult fondness for movies like “An Affair to Remember” and “Sleepless in Seattle.” Cary Grant was deliciously easy on the eye and Tom Hanks, while not exactly cheesecake, had a certain rustic appeal.
“Can you see that the corners on the 31st floor of the Chrysler Building are different from those on the other floors?” Zoran asked.
“Why yes, I can. It’s so clear today, it’s as if everything is standing out in bas relief.”
“Those corners are replicas of the 1929 Chrysler radiator caps,” Zoran said.
“Really! I didn’t know that. The Chrysler Building is beautiful but the Empire State is my favorite.”
“A B-25 bomber plane crashed into your favorite building in 1945. Fourteen people were killed. One elevator operator survived a 75-story fall inside an elevator. That is a Guinness World Record,” Zoran said, quoting from his encyclopedic store of esoterica. He never abbreviated or contracted his words. Obviously one of his obsessions, Yoko thought. A shame, but he functions well. The meds he takes help and he must be very determined to resist his obsessive-compulsive inclinations.
Neither Yoko nor Zoran heard Dan come up behind them and they both were startled at the sound of his voice.
“Fellini didn’t do anything by half,” Dan said, “but he can’t claim credit for this amazing view. Zoran, do you want to look at the photos of the victim now or walk around a bit more, get a feel for the place?”
“Let me examine the run first, and then I will go over the photos,” Zoran said, talking as the three of them walked. “I did not know about this roof run, although I did know Fellini was a champion archer and coached state archery teams for years. You said he was hit with a hunting arrow. Those are very different from target arrows. They are much more deadly.”
“That’s why it looks premeditated,” Dan said. “The coroner’s report established the time of death, it fits with the widow’s statement. After his morning target practice, which apparently never lasted long, Fellini always came down for a light breakfast with Sophia Fellini then joined his two assistants in the office. They usually arrive about eight. Unfortunately, we don’t have an eye wit to the murder. All we’ve got is what folks are telling us.”
“Yes,” Zoran said. “That is probably true. We have not yet located an eye witness. There is at least one eye witness, of course: the murderer himself—or herself.”
Dan broke into a grin. “And that guy—or gal—probably won’t come forward and confess.”
Zoran didn’t see the humor. “Indeed. You were saying that the widow went alone to the roof and found the body? No one else went with her?”
“Correct. She says she always did her yoga routines while he practiced his archery. Insists they both were religious about their schedule, said it was for their mental health because the rest of the day and night was usually booked full, all work, work, work.”
Yoko followed Dan to a picnic table under a green and white canopy. A slender file lay on the table. Dan opened the file and fanned out the photos so that each was easy to see. Yoko watched as Zoran walked slowly around the outside of the run, then along the inside length of it, pausing every now and then to stare around. He was about to exit the archery run when he stopped and bent to pick up something. It was too small for Yoko to see what it was. Zoran pulled a small package of Purell sanitized wipes out of his pocket and meticulously wiped each finger on both hands. The grapevine had it that he bought the wipes by the carton.
“I wonder what he found,” Yoko said to Dan. “A clue, do you think?”
“No point asking, we’ll find out when Zoran’s ready.”
Eventually, Zoran came over to the picnic table to see the photos, examining them without comment as Dan flipped through the selection.
Finally, Zoran and Dan began to talk. Yoko listened carefully, not wanting to interrupt their thought process.
“The victim was almost at the end of the 35-yard run, near the target,” Zoran said. “He—or someone—shot ten arrows into the target. They landed in a perfectly spaced line from the outsid
e ring to the center circle, the bull’s eye. Let us say, for the sake of argument, that Marco Fellini was the archer who shot the ten so elegantly.
“Then, perhaps as he walked to retrieve the arrows, one more arrow, a hunting arrow, not a target arrow, was fired. That one landed in his lower back, in the kidney area. It is surprising that he did not hear the sibilance of that arrow in flight. Perhaps he knew this person and either he or the assailant was talking. But it is obvious that Fellini did not expect to be attacked.”
“Makes sense,” Dan said. “I wonder…could someone have sneaked on to the roof and fired at Fellini without Fellini knowing? Traffic noise might have covered the sounds.”
“Yes,” Zoran said. “That is possible. But one thing is certain. Most definitely, this is premeditated murder. He did not shoot himself, and if whoever shot him had done so accidentally, the shooter would have called 9-1-1 for help and death could have been avoided.
“The killer was cold-blooded,” Zoran continued. “Why else would a hunting arrow have been used, except to kill? Furthermore, the impact point of the arrow, in the area of his kidneys, almost guaranteed a quick death. All of the arrows in the target were target arrows, not hunting arrows.”
“Anything else, Zoran, or should we go downstairs to talk to Mrs. Fellini again?” Dan said.
Yoko’s cell phone rang as she followed Dan and Zoran down the stairs from the roof. She stopped on the landing to answer it. It was Brian Watson, calling from the 13th Precinct.
“Oh, it’s you, Yoko. I thought I hit the speed dial for Dan. Never mind. Just tell Dan that I’ve sent a car to the Fellini house to take him to the hospital then to the morgue, okay?”
“What’s up, Brian?” Yoko said. “Doesn’t Dan have to go to the hospital to interview the balloonist?”
Eye Wit Page 3