by Jane Haddam
“I went down to Ararat. Would you like to hear what I was listening to at Ararat?”
“Sure.”
Gregor outlined David Goldman’s story about Lotte Goldman’s story about the dreidels as quickly and succinctly as he could, which was considerably more quickly and monumentally more succinctly than David Goldman had. Bennis sat in a kitchen chair with her legs folded up under her and smoked. Bennis always smoked. It was the one bad habit she had not managed to give up since moving to Cavanaugh Street. Gregor was beginning to think nicotine was a true addiction—meaning a substance that took over for some other bodily function when you used it. Maybe when you used nicotine, your adrenal gland stopped producing enough adrenaline to keep you moving. God only knew, if social pressure could make someone quit, Bennis ought to be tobacco-free.
When Gregor finished talking about David Goldman, Bennis was halfway through with her Benson & Hedges Menthol. She blew a stream of smoke into the air and said, “That’s interesting. Do you suppose it means anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ought to find out how easy it is to get one of those Israeli dreidels in this country. You ought to send somebody out looking for one.”
“I’d have to do that both here and in New York,” Gregor said. “I could probably do it here. John would send someone if I told him it was important. What would I do in New York?”
Bennis had turned away a little at the mention of John Jackman’s name. Now she took another drag on her cigarette and stared at the ceiling. “Call the police in New York,” she said. “After what’s happened here, they can’t go on treating the death of Maria Gonzalez like an ordinary mugging. Maybe they’ll have somebody they can send out trying to buy dreidels.”
“It’s the kind of thing the district attorney’s office would do, not the police,” Gregor told her. “After they’ve already got their man in jail, to back up their case, if you see what I mean. And even if it turned out that it was impossible to buy one in either New York or Philadelphia, I don’t know what it would mean. The dreidels weren’t found near the scenes of the crimes. They don’t seem to have anything to do with anything.”
“They’re just strange.”
“That’s right. And I don’t like strange. Do you know what else I think is strange?”
“What?”
“The business with the wallet.”
“What business with the wallet?” Bennis cocked her head. “You mean the fact that Maximillian Dey had his wallet stolen before the show left New York?”
“It’s not just that Maximillian Dey got his wallet stolen,” Gregor said, rearranging his body on the chair and stretching out his legs. Bennis had very modern, very angular, very uncomfortable kitchen chairs. She also had very modern, very angular, very uncomfortable marble sculpture in her living room. Gregor often wondered how she could stand it.
“Think back to yesterday,” Gregor told her. “When we got to the studio, the first thing that happened was that we ran into Max, and he dropped—”
“Everything,” Bennis picked up. “I remember. All that stuff fell out of his pockets.”
“Right. Including his green card. I know his green card was there, because I picked it up off the floor and handed it to him.”
“Oh.” Bennis sat up straight. Her cigarette was out. She lit another. “I see what you’re getting at. Most people would keep their green cards in their wallets.”
“Like credit cards, yes,” Gregor said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who had a green card who didn’t carry it in his wallet. Carrying it in a wallet simplifies things. People do forget their wallets at home but it’s rare. They remember because they need their money. And they’re careful with their wallets because they’re careful with their money. And since aliens residing in the United States must have their green cards on them at all time, wallets are the logical place to keep them.”
Bennis frowned. “Maybe it was just an idiosyncrasy,” she said. “Maybe he was just so paranoid about losing it, he kept it pinned to his underwear or something.”
“It’s laminated. But yes, I know what you mean. Somebody on The Lotte Goldman Show might know. Max might have mentioned it when he talked about getting his wallet stolen.”
“I think that DeAnna Kroll woman knows everything.” Bennis took another drag and blew out another stream of smoke. Gregor gave himself a measure of comfort by reminding himself that Bennis’s smoking always tapered off in the afternoon.
“You know what else I’m interested in finding out,” he said. “I’d like to know if that card was still on him after he was found dead.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? What good would a green card do anybody?”
“Maybe one of the staff on The Lotte Goldman Show is in the country illegally. Then a green card might do a good deal of good, if you could alter it, or knew somebody who could alter it, or knew somebody willing to trade it for a forgery.”
“Would they do that? Would a forger trade it for a forgery?”
“I don’t think so,” Gregor said. “It’s easier to forge those things from scratch. The real ones do have one characteristic the forged ones don’t, though. When you run their numbers through the INS computer, they check out.”
“That could be helpful in a pinch.”
“Mmmm. But what gets to me, Bennis, is that I’m sure I heard somebody say yesterday that Maximillian Dey’s pockets had been cleaned out. Cleaned out. Those were the exact words.”
“I’d think that was the kind of thing you’d pay attention to.”
“I had other problems on my mind at the time. John and I were discussing possible murder weapons. But it just doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe John and you should discuss it some more,” Bennis said.
Bennis still had a fair amount left of her cigarette. She stubbed it out in the ashtray anyway, then stood up and lit another. Then she turned her back on Gregor and went to the sink.
“I was thinking,” she said. “I’m a little burned out, you know what I mean? I’m a little stale. I thought maybe it might make sense if I got away for a little while.”
“Starting when?”
“Starting tomorrow. I made some phone calls last night. I can get Concorde tickets for the day after. Tomorrow morning I could go up to New York and do some shopping.”
“Concorde tickets to where?”
“Paris.”
“Bennis, it is not John Jackman’s fault. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”
“You didn’t testify at the sentencing hearing.”
“I wasn’t asked to.”
“He testified at the sentencing hearing after I’d slept with him.”
“Bennis—”
Bennis whipped around. She was holding her cigarette high in the air in her right hand. It nearly set fire to her hair. For the first time Gregor could remember, she was in tears.
“Listen,” she said, “I know all the arguments. I’ve made all the arguments myself. I mean, for God’s sake, it was my father she killed.”
“Yes,” Gregor said.
“And not just my father, oh no, trust the Hannafords, we can’t do anything in moderation. So there are a lot of people dead and we’ve had the trial and we’ve had the sentencing and we’ve had two stays of execution so far and I don’t want it, Gregor. I don’t want her to be executed. I don’t care how many people she killed. She’s mine too.”
“I know,” Gregor said. “I don’t blame you. But it is not John Jackman’s fault.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You just blame him for it. I solved that case, Bennis. You know that. You were there. Why not blame me?”
“You didn’t—”
“Testify at the sentencing,” Gregor said. “Yes. I know. But John didn’t exactly volunteer. He was called.”
“He could have recommended—”
“He couldn’t have recommended anything. That’s not how these things work. You’re punish
ing him for—”
“I’m not punishing him for anything.” Bennis tapped a long column of ash into the ashtray with a finger motion that reminded Gregor of whips. “I’m not doing anything to anybody. I’m just suggesting that I might spend this Christmas someplace else.”
“In Paris.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.”
“Tibor will be very disappointed.”
Another long column of ash had appeared on Bennis’s cigarette. It was as if she sucked them into art forms. She studied the ash with fascination and took another drag. The ash didn’t fall and she tapped it out.
“I don’t want her to die,” she said, her voice under control again. “I just don’t want her to die. There has been enough dying in this generation of the Hannaford family. I am sick of it.”
“It isn’t up to you.”
Bennis took a last drag and put the cigarette out. “Just let me go to Paris,” she said. “Just don’t make a fuss about it. I’ll spend ridiculous amounts of money and cheer myself up.”
Gregor wanted to point out to Ms. Bennis Hannaford the fact that she had been spending ridiculous amounts of money for almost three years now and she hadn’t cheered herself up yet. She had spent a ridiculous amount of money buying this apartment, free and clear, for cash, the way other people bought sweaters. She had spent a ridiculous amount of money buying her little tangerine orange Mercedes sports car, also for cash. There wasn’t a day when the UPS man didn’t stop at her door, delivering another package from Saks Fifth Avenue and L.L. Bean and J. Crew. It was a damn good thing Bennis Hannaford got seven-figure advances for her books, because the way she’d been behaving since her father had been murdered, if she hadn’t she’d be broke.
That was a lecture Gregor had been wanting to give Bennis for months, but he decided not to give it to her now. He had a lot to deal with, what with The Lotte Goldman Show murder and the graffiti on the synagogue and the problem of Sofie Oumoudian, but he figured he could take on one more thing if he had to. He just had to give himself time to think about it.
In the meantime, he decided to get out of Bennis Hannaford’s apartment.
2
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, GREGOR Demarkian met Tibor Kasparian on the steps of Holy Trinity Church, and the two of them started walking in the direction of the tenement where Helena and Sofie Oumoudian lived together. They were a little nervous. They had been invited to this lunch before Maximillian Dey had been killed. They had no idea how much a conservative old lady as Helena Oumoudian would take all the publicity that had been heaped on Gregor since Max’s body had been discovered. Gregor kept thinking about Helena’s thick wooden cane, its handle carved into gargoyles, its base worn down to a point. It reminded him of the lethal weapons old lady spies used to carry in British World War II movies. Helena Oumoudian reminded him of a gargoyle herself. She had a face with skin so wrinkled, it must have been pickled in brine at birth. Her temperament wasn’t much better connected to sweetness and light. When they had gone to have tea there, Helena had interrogated them with as much patience as Savonarola ferreting out a heretic. Heretics were what Helena Oumoudian suspected both Gregor and Tibor of being. She didn’t like Gregor’s looks. She didn’t like Tibor’s background. She had no respect for what either of them did for a living. And she didn’t trust their interest in her niece.
“She thinks we’re a pair of dirty old men,” Tibor had said in shock as they left the apartment the last time.
The only ray of hope Gregor saw in the entire situation was that she apparently thought they were interesting dirty old men. That was why she had asked them back to lunch.
“You’re the one who should worry,” Tibor told Gregor. “I’m a widower. Widowed priests cannot remarry in our church.”
“Widowed FBI agents aren’t interested in changing their marital status at Christmas,” Gregor said. “Don’t worry about it. Joey will be the perfect match for Sofie. Assuming it ever gets that far.”
“It is better not to ask how far it has gotten,” Tibor said. “At least, not these days.”
Approaching the Oumoudians’ street, Gregor saw that a few more people had made an effort to spruce things up for the holiday. Cavanaugh Street was already about as spruced up as anybody could stand. Sometime while Gregor was talking to Bennis or hidden away in his own apartment, Howard Kashinian had come and moved the menorah to its place in front of the church. Donna had been harder at work than that, however. All the light poles had been wrapped, barber-pole fashion, in red and green ribbons. Bagdesarian’s Middle Eastern Import Store had a big silver bow in its plate glass window. Ohanian’s Middle Eastern Food Store had a pyramid of ornate, enameled dreidels right next to the pile of karabich cookies it kept to the right of the door. Dreidels. Gregor was thoroughly tired of dreidels.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket—when he lived in Washington, it was customary for men to go without coats, no matter how cold the weather, because a suit without a coat was considered “more professional”—and said, “So, Tibor. Have you thought about it? What are we going to do about Bennis?”
“Of course I have thought about it,” Tibor said. “I have thought ever since you called. And what we should do about it is obvious.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. We must stop her from leaving tomorrow. Tomorrow is much too soon. It doesn’t give us any time.”
“I know it doesn’t. Have you ever tried to stop Bennis when there was something she wanted to do?”
“I know, Krekor.”
“Under ordinary circumstances, getting me involved in a murder investigation would keep Bennis at my side like a hangnail, but these aren’t ordinary circumstances.”
“In these circumstances, it is the murder investigation that is the problem.”
“Not the murder investigation,” Gregor corrected, “who’s conducting the murder investigation.”
“Which is too bad,” Tibor said, “because John Jackman is a very nice man and a very good police officer and also he will do what you want him to do.”
“I don’t think we can do anything directly,” Gregor said. “I think she’d suspect something.”
“I do, too,” Tibor said. “But I do not know who to ask, Krekor. I do not trust Donna Moradanyan. She would tell.”
“Yes, she probably would. And Lida would be bad at it.”
“And Hannah Krekorian would tell everybody in the neighborhood and it would get back.” Tibor sighed. “This is a difficulty, Krekor. This is an impossibility.”
“No it isn’t,” Gregor said.
“What do you mean?”
Gregor felt much better. He felt much better. “You do agree that the problem is that Bennis should not be left alone?”
“Of course.”
“Especially at Christmas?”
“This is indubitable.”
“Fine, Tibor, fine. We need about three extra days. I know just how we’re going to get them, too.”
“How?” Tibor asked.
They were at the building that housed the Oumoudians’ apartment. They were coming up the steps just as Sofie Oumoudian was opening the front door. Sofie looked harassed.
“Quick,” she said. “My aunt has been excited all day. She can hardly wait to talk to you.”
Gregor Demarkian grinned. “Well, that’s better than I thought we were going to get. I thought your aunt was going to refuse to have anything to do with us. Two unsavory characters. Mixed up with the police.”
“So-fi-aaaa,” a thin high voice called from up the stairs.
Sofie looked in the direction of the noise with exasperation. “She may kidnap you,” she warned. “It’s all she’s been talking about since last night. She’s beside herself.”
“She was beside herself the last time,” Tibor said.
“The last time she was nervous. Please. Father. Mr. Demarkian. Please hurry. She keeps saying she wants to hear about every drop of bloo
d.”
Every drop of blood.
So she was one of those old ladies.
Gregor decided not to care.
He was too wrapped up in the thought that he’d finally hit on a plan that would fool Bennis Hannaford.
FIVE
1
DEANNA KROLL THOUGHT ABOUT violent death differently than most of the people she worked with. Murder didn’t seem as unreal to her as it did to Shelley Feldstein and Sarah Meyer. For a long time DeAnna had thought that this was a result of a better than passing acquaintance with death in general. Now she knew it wasn’t true. Poor people die more easily than richer ones do, even in countries with national health systems and publicly administered prenatal care. Malnutrition and disease, depression and accident: DeAnna remembered reading once about a man in Tupelo, Mississippi, who died by falling into a well he’d dug on the edge of his property. It was broad daylight, he was stone cold sober and the well was marked. Nobody had any idea why he’d fallen into it. Things like that never happened to lawyers’ wives in Scarsdale or plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. It was as if God passed out the freak accidents based on whose bank account was the thinnest. The only kind of death he allowed to be an equal-opportunity employer was death by traffic accident. Whatever it was that got a man on the highway was just as likely to kill him as it was to kill anybody else. That was why DeAnna Kroll didn’t drive.
Death by deliberate murder, though, was different. Before Maria Gonzalez died—and before Max—DeAnna had thought there would be similarities between that kind of thing and what Lotte or Itzaak Blechmann had lived through. Holocaust and political persecution seemed like variations of deliberate murder to her. Now she knew that they weren’t, at least in terms of the effects they had on the people who survived them. Lotte and Itzaak were both terribly upset. Lotte had been sick to her stomach after she’d seen the body of Maria Gonzalez. Itzaak had cried for half an hour after Max’s body was taken away. To this day, DeAnna could remember what it had been like the first time she had been in an apartment whose windows were sprayed with bullets. It was years ago, long before drive-by shootings got to be a kind of national ghetto sport. She was sitting on the floor with both babies crawling over her feet on the worn carpet when the craziness started. It was nuts. There was the sound of a car pulling up to the curb downstairs—the wrong sound, complete with squealing brakes and a honk. Then someone with a boy-man’s voice had started screaming some words DeAnna couldn’t make out and somebody else had let loose with a machine gun. Whoever it was was not a very good shot. He did very little damage to the apartment above DeAnna’s, which was the one he wanted. He blew out all of DeAnna’s windows and cut her pendulum cuckoo clock off the wall and into shards. He killed a three-year-old girl who had been watering the flowers in the window box of the apartment downstairs. The police came later and managed to look shocked, but that didn’t make them effective. It was impossible for them to be effective when nobody would tell them anything. Nobody ever told the police anything in the neighborhood DeAnna lived in before she got successful enough to move downtown. One of the hardest adjustments she had to make when she got the apartment in Turtle Bay was in her attitude toward the police. People in Turtle Bay called the police all the time. And the police came.