Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  When they turned, a tall, thin man with curly dark brown hair appeared instantly in the dining room entrance. He was wearing a tuxedo, and when he smiled, he revealed two prominent gold teeth. Everything about him was long, from his narrow face and neck to his arms and hands. In fact, she thought he was spidery, but he had warm light blue eyes.

  “Mr. Milton, what a delight to see you again,” he said, “and with so beautiful a woman.”

  “Michele, this is Gabriel David. He means whatever he says. He hasn’t been as kind to other women I’ve escorted here for business reasons.”

  Gabriel David shrugged but reached for Michele’s hand and brought it to his thin, somewhat pale lips. “Welcome to Angel’s Lair,” he said.

  “It looks very special,” she said.

  “Now that you’re here, it will be,” he replied.

  “Oh, boy. This is the place to cheer up a loser,” she told John. His smile widened.

  In the dining room, the vibrant ruby shades of the entryway were carried in swirls along the milky white floor tiles and the otherwise white paneled walls dressed with sconces that looked like classical Greek or Roman. Many of the paintings on the walls looked like originals or at least good copies. She recognized Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus, Tintoretto’s Adam and Eve, and Dalí’s Christ of Saint John of the Cross. The others were medieval works of art depicting plagues and fires.

  “Not the most cheery art for a restaurant,” she quipped.

  “But great art nevertheless, and great art will please you in one way or another,” John said as they followed Gabriel David to their table in the far right corner.

  Michele realized that all eyes were on them in the nearly full restaurant. The clientele looked like people from magazine society pages, in photographs of the super-wealthy enjoying what looked like perennial spring, decked out at galas ostensibly for charity but really organized for the well-to-do to exhibit their designer clothes, fashionable hairstyles, and expensive jewelry. The side effect was that some charity enjoyed an uptick in funds, justifying all the ostentation and vanity.

  Although some of the women here smiled and many of the men seemed to know John and nodded at him, he didn’t acknowledge anyone.

  “Why is it I get the feeling that the combined net worth of the people in this room is more than the net worth of many Third World countries?” Michele asked when they were seated.

  “Your feelings are probably accurate,” he replied. “Would you mind having a bottle of Dom Pérignon to start?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “You might think it coarse of me to celebrate, considering . . .”

  “You have a reason to celebrate,” she said. “Why deny it?”

  He nodded at the waiter, who stood a few feet back. “I have two reasons to celebrate tonight. The court victory, yes, but having you join me for dinner, too.”

  “Not quite worth equal points.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he said. He glanced around. “You don’t know all the players yet, but there are three New York Supreme Court judges here tonight.”

  She looked at the clientele. “I know one, I think. Judge Cornbleau, Nassau County?”

  “Correct.”

  The waiter brought the champagne and poured two glasses.

  “I’d like to make a toast à la Humphrey Bogart,” John said, holding up his glass.

  Michele held hers. “I think I know it,” she said.

  “Then let’s make it together. He touched her glass, and they said together, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh and sip her champagne. “Before you charm the hell out of me,” she began, “tell me how you acquired all that personal data in the short time you were on this case.”

  “My, you are all business first, aren’t you?”

  “Why do I get the feeling you are, too?”

  He laughed. “Okay. One of the first things I did when I had the money to do so was hire a personal private investigator.”

  “Tom Beardsly?”

  “So you do your research, too. Why did you ask, then?”

  “You seemed to know more than what one investigator could bring you that quickly.”

  “I might have a few others on the payroll. I like to cast a wide net when I take on a case. I’m sorry.”

  “Hardly something that requires an apology. When did you decide to become a lawyer?”

  “Oh, I think I always was. It was in my blood to defend the accused when I was younger. I always felt . . . needed. Shall we consider the menu? You must be hungry by now.”

  He nodded and the waiter handed them the menus.

  I recommend the lamb shank. The chef here does wonders with it. It will melt in your mouth.”

  “Why don’t you just order for me?” she said, and put her menu down.

  “All right. I will.”

  She watched him order in French. “Doesn’t the waiter speak English?”

  “It makes it taste better,” John said, and she laughed again.

  “How did you get Cisley Strumfield to believe she was being questioned by her dead husband?” She aimed her question like a pistol at his eyes, pulling it on him abruptly so she could catch him unguarded.

  “What makes you think I did anything to make her think that?”

  “I have some good instincts.”

  He laughed. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t find you as fascinating if you didn’t.”

  “So?”

  “You want me to tell you? What happens to a magician who reveals the secrets of his tricks?”

  “You consider yourself a magician?”

  “There are all kinds of magic in this world, Michele. The kind performed in Las Vegas, your aunt’s kind, and Mother Nature.”

  “So you know about my aunt?”

  “I said I did my research on you. I absolutely adore people like your aunt. I just didn’t think she’d be in the mood to see me tonight. It’s a little too soon.”

  “You were right about that. In fact, I can’t guarantee she’ll ever be in the mood to see you.”

  “I’ll find a way to charm her, appeal to her sort of magic.”

  “What kind do you perform?”

  “Something between Mother Nature and Las Vegas. I ordered a favorite red wine of mine. I hope you like it.”

  “You’re a magician. Make sure I do,” she said.

  “Abracadabra,” he said, waving his hand over the table.

  “So I’m not getting my quid pro quo when it comes to Cisley Strumfield?”

  “Whatever I did stimulated her guilt.”

  “You don’t seriously think she had her husband killed?”

  “No, but she had guilt over her affair, I believe, and maybe that was exacerbated by his death.”

  She sat back and sipped her champagne. The waiter had practically leaped to refresh her glass. After another moment, she slipped off her shawl.

  He smiled. “I was actually afraid that you’d have an unfair advantage with the jury. I’ve seen juries show more favor to beautiful attorneys like yourself. Even the women on juries do. They’re more concerned with what you’re wearing than with what you’re saying.”

  “That’s very chauvinistic.”

  “Am I chauvinistic? So I’m chauvinistic. I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.”

  “Playing with Walt Whitman? You’re still chauvinistic.”

  He smiled. Two waiters were bringing their salads, bread, and the wine.

  “I can see there’s no point in trying to fool you,” he said.

  “Try anyway. I enjoy it.”

  He laughed. I will win this woman, he thought. She’s very special.

  And when I do, it will be like stealing an angel.

  23

  Fish was surprised to find Blake at his desk so early in the morning. From the way others looked at Blake and then at him, he got the impression they already knew the lieutenant was in a very bad mood. They made a point of keeping their dista
nce, widening the circle around his desk. He was just staring ahead, not even aware that Fish was standing in front of him.

  “Hey,” Fish said. “What’d ya do, sleep here last night?”

  Blake blinked his eyes rapidly for a moment and then nodded. “Matter of fact, I practically did,” he said. “I was here at six.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “I had some work to catch up on, but we’ve got a new homicide,” Blake said, rising. “Call just came in from toxicology. Forty-year-old white male, arsenic poisoning.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes. Let’s go.”

  They started out.

  “Wife in the frame?” Fish asked.

  “And mistress,” Blake said. “One of them got fed up. Whoever we tag, we’d better have an open-and-shut case. Reasonable doubt is more and more like unreasonable doubt these days,” he added, not disguising his bitterness.

  “Yeah. Sorry about the Heckett outcome,” Fish said as they continued out. “The newspapers are having a field day blowing up this John Milton into some super-lawyer.”

  “Sorry about the outcome?” Blake said, pausing. “Yeah, I guess we can all say we’re sorry about it. A dark shadow has moved over this city.”

  “Seems to me it was always over this city,” Fish said.

  Blake walked faster. They got into the car. “Not like this,” he said. He just sat there for a moment, his hands on the steering wheel.

  “What makes you say so? The Heckett case? Lots of bad guys walk, Lieutenant. I’m sure this wasn’t your first bad experience with the legal system.”

  Blake didn’t move, didn’t speak. He looked frozen. Fish saw the way his knuckles reddened as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. It was as if something was boiling inside him and would overflow in a wave of hot blood.

  “There somethin’ else you’re not telling me, Lieutenant?” Fish asked.

  “There was a note waiting for me on my desk when I got in,” Blake said. “It was from Aunt Eve.”

  “Aunt Eve?”

  “Ms. Armstrong’s aunt.”

  “Oh. What about it?”

  “She said Michele had gone out to dinner with John Milton last night.”

  “Last night? After the verdict? No shit?”

  “That’s not the worst of it, in my mind.”

  “What is?”

  “She didn’t come home, and she doesn’t pick up on her cell phone,” he said. He started the engine and drove in silence.

  Fish wondered, Is he worried about her or pissed that she went out with someone else? He turned the words over carefully in his mind so he could ask the question without enraging him. “You don’t think John Milton’s capable of hurting her, do you?”

  Blake smiled. Fish thought it was a maddening smile. It actually put a little chill in his spine. “John Milton is capable of committing evil you haven’t even imagined,” Blake said.

  “He’s a bad-ass lawyer who’s hired a bad-ass ex-FBI guy as his personal investigator, but I wouldn’t give him credit for too much more.”

  “He’s depending on that,” Blake said.

  What the hell was he talking about now?

  They drove on in a heavy silence until they reached the apartment building on West Fifty-Seventh.

  “So what is this? What do we know?” Fish asked.

  “Victim’s name is Dylan Kotter. Accountant at CNN. Wife’s name is Melody. They’ve been married twelve years, no children. She claims she was at her sister’s apartment in Brooklyn last night, looking after her two cats. Her sister’s on holiday in Puerto Rico.”

  “I don’t think you have to babysit cats all night. My grandmother always had cats. They’re pretty damn independent.”

  “I’m sure there’s more to the story. She claims she came home early this morning and found her husband stone dead on the sofa. Uniformed officers and paramedics first thought it was a heart attack. Medical examiner estimated time of death about one in the morning. Wife said he had his mistress in the apartment while she was gone. Claimed it wasn’t the first time. She told the uniformed patrolmen that she could smell the scent of perfume in the air and on the sofa.

  “She said the mistress’s name is Marie Longstreet. She also claimed she didn’t want a divorce. She wanted to ‘open his eyes’ and save their marriage. She told the officers on the scene that they were talking about adopting a child before all this. Maybe that’s true, maybe not. The mistress was possibly disgusted with his failed promises to divorce his wife and marry her. If she’s the perp, I imagine she felt used and wanted to stamp her displeasure on his soul. I had time to check her out. She’s a twenty-two-year-old hostess at the Dew Drop Inn just over the GW Bridge in Fort Lee.”

  “Well, it’s probably one of them,” Fish said. “Poison is usually a woman’s MO, and spies use it, of course, but he doesn’t sound like an undercover agent.”

  “Yes, statistically, it’s usually a woman’s MO,” Blake said. “However, my guess is nothing will be usual in this city anymore. I’m telling you all this because you could be on this one more than I will. I’m waiting for a phone call that might take me away at any moment.”

  “Take you away? How long?”

  “I don’t know. Some doors are opening.”

  “Doors?”

  “Let’s go,” Blake said, getting out of the car.

  Fish followed him. “Doors?” he repeated.

  Blake stopped at the entrance to the apartment building. He looked back at the street as carefully as someone who feared he was being followed, and then entered, leaving Fish unanswered. Fish shook his head and caught up. Blake said nothing in the elevator. He glared ahead, his tension and rage palpable. When the door opened, he charged out of the elevator and down the hallway to the Kotter apartment.

  Both of them were surprised to be greeted by an attorney named Paul Scholefield when they buzzed. He introduced himself quickly and handed Blake his card as soon as Blake had presented his. He was a little more than six feet tall, with light brown hair, and slim in his tailor-made dark blue suit. Maybe in his late twenties, Scholefield looked as well put together as a store mannequin, his fingernails manicured, his hair cut with surgical precision.

  Blake looked up from the business card. “I’ve heard of ambulance chasers, but you’re almost ahead of that. What, do you anticipate crime?” he asked in an accusatory tone.

  Scholefield didn’t even blink. He smiled softly, giving himself an innocent-schoolboy look. He had the sort of face that would take decades to reveal his true age.

  “I specialize in preventive legal medicine,” he replied. “I don’t anticipate crime, just the need for a criminal attorney. I know what happens when you guys confront an unattended death, especially when there is a wife or a husband involved.”

  “You know what happens?” Blake muttered. “Are you a family friend?”

  “My relationship with Mrs. Kotter is not pertinent to your investigation, Lieutenant.”

  “I think I’ll know what’s pertinent and what isn’t,” Blake countered. “Where’s Mrs. Kotter?”

  “She’s resting at the moment, but we don’t want to stir up your policeman’s natural suspicions, so I’ll let her know you’ve arrived. Have a seat in the living room,” he added, and stepped back to let them in.

  “Living room? Hasn’t that been sealed off?” Blake asked. “It’s an unattended death,” he emphasized, also for Fish’s benefit.

  “Oops. Someone’s already screwed up the chain of evidence, I’m afraid. This is why lawyers are needed. Excuse me,” Scholefield said, and went down a short hallway to knock on a door.

  “Screwed up the chain of evidence?” Fish asked. “Why lawyers are needed?”

  “Yes, he’s working for the public good,” Blake said. “Don’t you know people have to be protected from the police as much as from criminals?”

  He and Fish entered the living room. It was small, with two large easy chairs and a matching sofa. A single tumbler
was still on the hardwood coffee table in front of the sofa. There were some magazines and a book about U.S. economic history on the table. There were no signs of any physical confrontation. Nothing looked disturbed.

  Melody Kotter walked in with Scholefield not only at her side but holding her at the elbow, ostensibly to keep her steady.

  Here’s a full-service lawyer, Blake thought. If he didn’t know her before or he wasn’t recommended by some friend, he’s one smooth worker.

  Mrs. Kotter was dressed in a light pink terry-cloth robe and wore a pair of matching pink slippers. She looked as if she had recently had her hair done, and she wore lipstick, a little rouge, and some eye shadow, looking more as if she was getting ready to go out for the evening and not just rising from a state of grief.

  “Mrs. Kotter, I’m Lieutenant Matthew Blake, and this is Detective John Fish. I’m not sure you know it yet,” he continued, glancing at Scholefield, “but a toxicology report has confirmed that your husband’s cause of death was arsenic poisoning.”

  He waited for her reaction, but she just stared silently, as if she were expecting him to add, “You’re under arrest.”

  “Do you have any specific questions, Lieutenant?” Scholefield asked.

  “Were you aware of this before now, Mrs. Kotter?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m not surprised to hear it. She was here. That bitch was here.”

  “Easy,” Scholefield said in a loud whisper. She sucked in her breath, closed her eyes, and then opened them again as if she had just repowered the computer in her head.

  “Did you touch the glass that’s on this table?” Blake asked, nodding at it.

  “Do you mean ever or recently?” Scholefield countered.

  “Obviously, recently.”

  Melody Kotter looked at the glass as if she had not seen it there before this moment. “It’s part of a set of glasses we keep in our liquor cabinet,” she said. “I did not touch it recently.”

  “There wasn’t any other glass on the table?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “I was more concerned with Dylan than the room.”

  Blake nodded at Fish, who put on his gloves and put the glass carefully in an evidence bag.

  “This entire apartment is now a crime scene,” Blake said. “A forensics team is on the way. We’re going to have to search the whole apartment. If you have somewhere else to go for a while . . .”