Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  A coffee shop on the corner, diagonally across from the entrance of her building, gave Ted a vantage point from which to watch and prepare for this ordeal. The morning rush was long over, so for a five-dollar tip, the waitress let him sip coffee by the window.

  Cheryl had her secrets. Their first meeting had been an odd mix of high emotion and irrational demands that had left him both confused and dismissive. He had gone along with her mostly as a way of getting rid of her. The second session had been entirely different. She had been pharaonic in giving him orders—right up to the moment when he had revealed to her the properties involved in the case. Suddenly she had wanted him to drop the pursuit of the money and focus only on the murder of her husband. Had she finally realized that the case Richie had chosen to pursue could be tied to La Bella Casa, Reisner, and Pak? There had been no tears for Richie, only a seething anger that Ted had felt was the most real emotion he had yet seen in her. This made her meeting with Councilman Pak and entourage doubly suspicious.

  And then there was the giant. How could something that big remain a mystery?

  The street was an ever-changing circus as the late morning merged into early afternoon. Hipsters with man buns and tattoos mixed with men in djellabas, women in hijabs, and Asians of both sexes in khakis and polo shirts. Teenagers of all skin colors wore ball caps or jerseys proclaiming allegiance to one or another New York sports team. A troop of spandex-clothed bicyclists cruised by to brave Queens Boulevard on their way to points east. Despite the varied cultures on parade, there was a communal feel to the display. These were all kindred folks going about their Sunday chores, observances, or recreations.

  Except for the giant.

  The monster from the Mets game came out the front door of Cheryl’s building dressed in a three-piece ivory-colored suit and bloodred tie, strode past the coffee shop, and continued up Greenpoint. Ted swung away from the window, afraid that the man might see him. He could see the glint of the giant’s pale shaved head floating above the fray for the next few moments. The guy moved quickly, as if he had an appointment to keep.

  There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for why the man who had threatened Ted was coincidentally leaving Cheryl’s building on an early Sunday afternoon. They were friends. He lived in the building. He had visited the widow to offer condolences. None of those explanations were compelling.

  More questions. Ted was owed answers. If Cheryl could not provide them, he would have no residual guilt about pulling the file and taking a pass on the whole mess. Cheryl didn’t know it, but the decision was all hers.

  The first hurdle to be vaulted was the locked front door. In every old movie Ted watched, the good guy buzzes all of the apartments at once, and someone always lets him in. That might have worked in Manhattan, with hordes of restaurant delivery guys working twenty-four seven, but in Queens that would never happen. First, because it was hard to find an intercom system that worked in a building more than twenty years old. And second, because New Yorkers have all seen those movies.

  But there’s always a way.

  A bent-backed woman draped all in black from babushka to boots was hauling a loaded grocery cart up the four steps. This was his opportunity.

  “May I?” Ted said, easily lifting her burden and gesturing for her to proceed. She gave him a long suspicious appraisal. Something in Ted’s face must have registered as worthy of her trust—if only for a moment. She gestured for him to follow, and he hoisted the full cart up the stairs while she fished out keys and opened the door.

  Ted stepped forward and followed her into the building. She stopped, whirled around, and began vigorously shooing him out in a language with a lot more consonants than vowels. He held up his hands to show he meant no harm, but she began to screech. Ted couldn’t understand a word of it, but the message was clear. She kept up the attack until he was outside on the stoop again, at which point she stopped, rustled through the deep folds of black cloth around her, and handed him a prayer card. Then she slammed the door closed. With him outside.

  St. Matthias the Apostle. Patron saint of drunks. The replacement for Judas, the first apostle to be chosen by lottery. His feast day was coming up. The prayer was a knockoff of the AA prayer about fixing things and serenity. Ted stuck the card in his pocket.

  At that moment, the door punched him in the back, and he staggered, almost going down. A teenage boy in typical street uniform of hoodie, ball cap, and oversized jeans pushed past Ted and jogged out to the street.

  He was gone before Ted had a chance to protest. He grabbed the closing door before the latch caught. He was in.

  “Who is that?”

  Ted knocked loud and often, keeping the other hand over the peephole so his face would remain hidden for as long as possible. Either Cheryl Rubiano had been fast asleep, or she had a tremendous ability to ignore routine cacophony

  “We need to talk,” he said, and rapped again. The door across the hall opened a crack and immediately slammed shut. “Come on, you’re bothering everybody on the floor.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.

  So she recognized his voice. He removed his hand from the peephole. He was now free to knock with both fists. Bam. Bam. Bam. It was a good door for banging on. Resonant. Tympanic.

  “Stop that or I call the cops.”

  “And I’ll tell them I work for you,” he said.

  “You’re fired.”

  “I came here to quit. All I want is some answers. I’ll give you your money back.”

  No answer. Was she thinking it over, or had she gone for a gun?

  “What the hell do you want to know?” she said. He was wearing her down.

  “I think we’d both be more comfortable discussing this inside rather than through the door,” Ted said, slathering on a calm, reasoned, confidential manner.

  Five seconds ticked by. Plenty of time to make a decision. He raised a fist, prepared to bang on the door once more, and heard the top lock click. The door swung open.

  “Come in here.” She was dressed for bed. The smell of gin seeping out of her pores was so strong Ted was concerned about a contact high. He didn’t think he reeked of stale beer. Of course, he’d showered, shaved, and fortified himself with strong coffee and hot sauce. Cheryl needed another twelve hours, detox, and a makeover.

  She led the way down a short hallway to the living room. The sunlight was bright. Her nightgown was thin. Translucent. She wasn’t wearing underwear. A butterfly tattoo swayed with each step.

  The decor was modern but not sterile. An L-shaped couch faced a glass and chrome coffee table. Two low swivel chairs completed the seating. A bookcase displayed a collection of porcelain dolls, some of which looked quite old. It was hard to imagine Richie relaxing in this room. There was no sign that he had ever been there. Not a picture, a memento, or even a dropped sock.

  Cheryl lowered herself onto the couch. “Make yourself useful. Put up some coffee.” She might have let Ted in, but she had not surrendered. She was in charge.

  There was a Keurig on the counter with a stainless carousel of pods. Espresso and dark roast predominated, but there were a few forlorn containers of mocha almond. He found mugs and made two espressos, letting his sit while hers brewed.

  “How do you take yours?” he called.

  No answer. He stuck his head out. Cheryl was splayed on the couch, fast asleep.

  He drank his coffee, then gave himself a complete tour of the premises. It can’t be snooping if you’re invited in, he thought. The king-size bed was a mess, a blanket trailing on the floor and the top sheet free floating. Two people performing an athletic pas de deux might have left such a trail. Or one tormented drunk with a guilty conscience.

  The damned dolls all seemed to be watching as he passed through the living room on his way to search the bathroom. Cheryl was still out.

  The medicine cabinet reveal
ed a man’s razor, shaving gel, and a gift set of Armani deodorant and eau de toilette—Giò—which Ted was sure had never been used by Richie Rubiano. He had always exuded a more natural aroma. But a man had been here—and often enough to leave grooming supplies.

  Ted heard Cheryl snort and gasp. He closed the cabinet and returned to the living room. She had pulled herself upright but looked only half-awake. Ted sat down facing her and waited until her eyes focused.

  “Ah, Jesus,” she said. “Are you still here?”

  “Feeling any better?” he asked. He avoided making eye contact with any of the porcelain heads behind her.

  “Where’s that coffee?” she whined.

  The mug was on the table in front of her. Ted let her find it on her own. She took a sip of the tepid brown liquid and winced. But she drank it.

  “How can you fuck up coffee from a Keurig machine, for the love of Pete? Did I fire you?”

  “Yes. And I want to ask you about that. But I have a couple of other questions first.”

  “I don’t want you screwing around any of this, you hear? Forget about those properties. The old lady. All of it. I told you that.”

  “You told me to find Richie’s killer. I think they’re connected.” He wasn’t interested in convincing her—or himself. He wanted a reaction.

  When it came, it wasn’t what he expected. Cheryl withdrew into what appeared to be a dark place. She seemed to deflate, her aggressive attitude gone. “It’s too late,” she said in a whisper so faint he almost asked her to repeat it. “Drop it.”

  “I’ve got police harassing me. I want out.” He didn’t feel it was necessary to explain that his ex-wife and her grandfather were also strong motivating impetuses. “I’ll be happy to refund your money.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Money,” she said with a sneer.

  Ted didn’t buy it. What could move this woman more than money? The answer came to him even as the question formed in his mind. Fear.

  “You were on fire when you first came to see me,” he said. “Now you’re ashes. What changed?”

  She looked at him with real pity in her bloodshot eyes. “You’re a nice guy. But you think you’re smart. And you are. Just not smart enough. Walk away, Eddie.”

  “As soon as I get some answers,” he said.

  The demand roused her ever so slightly. “I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to.”

  “We’ll start with an easy one. I think you work for Councilman Kevin Pak. What do you do for him?”

  “What? Is this supposed to be some big secret? I’m his admin. One of two, actually.”

  “Okay, but what do you do?”

  “I’m senior admin, though we don’t do titles,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything. Sometimes silence creates a better question than repetition.

  “Outreach. Fundraising. Business leaders need his support. They have to go through me to talk to him. A campaign contribution always helps.”

  That kind of transactional democracy, which Ted took for granted, would have been called corruption in a foreign government. “Pay to play,” he said.

  “Who cares? Why do you want to know?” She took a long slug of the cold coffee.

  “I think your councilman is involved with Reisner and LBC and . . .”

  He never got to the last part of his accusation, the Russian mob. Cheryl was laughing too hard.

  “I would hope to hell he is,” she said. “It may not be his district, but his vote cost them good money. They wouldn’t have got to first base on that project without his okay.”

  “I’ve heard the Russian mob is financing that tower.”

  She laughed again, though this time there was a brittle edge to the laughter. It was a stall. She was preparing a lie. “All the big banks were fighting for a piece of that deal. Why would LBC need dirty money? Why are we talking about this?”

  He didn’t trust her, but he had to keep her talking. “LBC uses a Russian real estate investment company to hide their interest in buying up the property they need. And I’m convinced that they’re laundering cash for Russian gangsters.”

  “I doubt that very much. Those guys are too smart to leave a million bucks on the table.” She stood and swayed into the kitchen. “I’m making some decent coffee.”

  He couldn’t read her. Was she hiding something? Covering for someone?

  He heard the sounds of her changing the pod in the coffee machine, followed by the click and hiss of it brewing. He was about to call out to her when it hit him—she was playing him, letting him stew alone while she regrouped. Ted was ready for her.

  Cheryl’s face appeared in the doorway. Her expression and body language were textbook bored. But her eyes showed something else. “Tell me what you think you know.”

  Ted tossed out a wild card: “Who’s the giant?”

  “What?”

  The question had rattled her.

  “The big guy?” Ted said. “Sharp dresser? He’s got a voice like Alvin and the Chipmunks. He stalked me. Threatened me.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Ted remembered the detective’s warning about her. Cheryl had grown up in a family of grifters. Lying would be a skill she’d been taught since birth. But she was frightened, and the mask had slipped.

  “I saw him leaving the building,” he said. He tried a feint. “His razor is in your bathroom.”

  “He’s a friend,” she said in a tone meant to end the discussion.

  “It’s good to have friends,” he said. “Does this one have a name?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I don’t think he wants me to quit. He was very insistent that I collect that money for you.”

  Her eyes burned at him. “I said drop it.”

  Ted tried a different tack. “So why did you fire me? What are you afraid of now?”

  “Who says I’m afraid?” She was back in full form, ready for a fight.

  “And now you no longer care about Richie’s killer.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t care. I told you to back off.”

  “Do you care? Really? Why do I not believe you?”

  He had touched a nerve. “I loved him. Once.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of it around here. You’ve scrubbed every sign he ever lived here. How long has he been gone? A week?”

  “Almost a year,” she said.

  The dolls’ eyes all seemed to swivel in his direction. They’d known all along. They were enjoying this moment.

  “He left me. Is that what you need to hear?”

  Was that another lie? Her pain came through loud and clear, but Ted couldn’t trust even that. The assault he had prepared was blown apart.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea. What happened?”

  “None of your damned business. He left. Cleared out. He was living in some guy’s basement in Hollis.”

  “Was this before or after the giant moved in?”

  “Don’t call him that,” she said. “And he doesn’t live here.”

  “What? He just stops by to shave every once in a while?”

  “Whatever you think you know, you don’t know the half of it.”

  She lied so easily. Everything she had ever said was suspect. It was time to take what sanity he had left and get out of there.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You helped me make a tough decision. I’m done.”

  The dolls all seemed to be glowering at him. How could he be so heartless, so cruel?

  “You should leave,” Cheryl said.

  Ted stood. The risk in staying longer was that he might reveal more of what he knew without learning any more than that Cheryl was prepared to lie—about everything.

  Ted cursed himself as he rode down in the elevato
r—Cheryl’s cash was still in his pocket. Somehow, he had missed his moment to dash it down in front of her and storm out. He wasn’t going back.

  He was glad to be done with the case, and yet he had unanswered questions. He was convinced Cheryl knew—or suspected—much more than she had admitted. Her demeanor had first changed at the restaurant when he told her that Richie’s case was tied to the LBC tower. She had not known it before. And as soon as she did, she warned Ted off that path of investigation. Now she was warning him off trying to find Richie’s killer. What had changed?

  There was a fire hydrant in front of Cheryl’s building. A flat-grey Ford Taurus with black steel wheels was squatting in the space, engine running. Two large men sat in the front seat. They could not have better advertised themselves as cops if they’d had a cruiser with siren and flashing lights. Duran and his partner. What was the man’s name? Casava-something?

  “C’mere, Molloy,” the partner called. “How’s the widow? Still in mourning? You been consoling?”

  The interview had left Ted depressed—confused and angry. He didn’t like the feeling.

  “My friends call me Ted. You can call me Mr. Molloy, Chuck.”

  The cop swung open the car door and jumped up onto the sidewalk, rolling his shoulders, prepared to teach Ted some manners. “Detective Kasabian, Molloy.”

  Ted spoke around him to Duran, who was behind the wheel. “Hey, I’m trying to get to Pesso’s in Bayside for gelato. You guys want to give me a lift?”

  “Didn’t your old man ever tell you nobody likes a wiseass?” Kasabian said.

  The cop was bigger than Ted but not by much. He carried his weight too far forward, leaning into the balls of his feet as he tried to appear threatening. Ted hadn’t wrestled since college, but he thought the cop would be a sucker for a double leg takedown.

  “My father kept all his good advice to himself,” Ted said. “I’ve tried to live by that same code.”

  “What did the widow tell you?” Duran asked. He didn’t seem interested in his partner’s macho performance.