by Blake Banner
I thought of her house, her books, her scrapbook, her photograph. There was nothing there. In fact, it was the absence of any personality that was most striking about the house. I remembered Iago in Othello: “I am not what I am…”
And Geronimo, about whom we knew, what, exactly? That he was supposedly a Jesuit, that he was supposedly a collector of rare books, that he might be Portuguese or Spanish. That nobody that we knew, aside from Duffy, had ever laid eyes on him.
Which of the two was the most anonymous? Which, the most deeply cloaked in shadows? What did they want? What was their motivation? What was their purpose? Were they working together, or were they enemies?
And then, who was this southern belle, with the black hair and the green eyes, who had hunted down Danny Schultz and killed him for no apparent reason? Was she working for Geronimo dos Santos?
I pulled in outside my front door and sat drumming my fingers on the wheel. There was only one person I could think of who could answer those questions for me.
Baxter.
It was time to pay Baxter another visit. I was going to shake his tree and see which way he jumped.
FOURTEEN
I had a late breakfast of toast and coffee and called Frank at nine to ask him to make the ballistics comparison between the slug that killed Steve and the slug that killed Danny Schultz. Then I picked Dehan up outside her apartment.
“You got plans for this morning?” she said, as she slammed the door.
“Yeah, I talked to Frank about the ballistics comparison. Now I want to go and shake Baxter’s cage. Why?”
“I was going to say, we need to go shake Baxter’s cage.”
I smiled and pulled away. “After we talk to him, I want you to get a cab back to the precinct and get a court order to check Peter Gunthersen’s accounts.”
She looked surprised. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stay with Baxter. I want to see where he goes after we scare him, or if anybody visits him.”
He was already in the office when we arrived, and looked surprised when we walked in.
“Detectives!” He smiled like a man who isn’t amused. “I wish you’d called. I am just on my way out.”
I smiled back with the same feeling and sat at his desk. “No, Baxter, you’re not. We are going to talk.”
He stood.
Dehan pulled up a chair and sat beside me. She looked up at him and said, “Sit.”
He sat.
I said, “Tell me about Geronimo dos Santos.”
All the blood drained from his face. He made like a goldfish for a moment, then shook his head in an “I have no idea who that is” fashion.
I said, “Are you about to lie to me, Baxter? I would think carefully before you do that. Because if I know that dos Santos is your client, and he is involved in a homicide and you lie to me, that’s your license gone right there. Is it worth it?”
He swallowed. “Homicide?” He glanced at Dehan. “My client is interested in the case. That isn’t the same as being involved…”
“How about Ernesto Sanchez’s murder? How about Danny Schultz’s murder?” I studied his face a moment. He looked scared. “Do you know what you are getting yourself into, Baxter?”
“I don’t know anything about Ernesto Sanchez or Danny Schultz…”
Dehan snorted. “But Geronimo dos Santos sure does. You led us on a pretty wild goose chase, Baxter, but we unearthed a few things, and let me tell you, pal, you are running with the wolves on this one.”
I nodded my agreement. “People who do odd jobs for dos Santos seem to wind up dead shortly after. Usually shot with a .38. Does that sound familiar?”
He was thinking, fast, but not clearly. He said, “Danny Schultz…”
He knew who he was. Dehan cut in, “He was shot through the heart. Just like Steve. Do you know who shot them?”
Before he could think about it, I said, “Let me make it easy for you, Baxter. You don’t need to tell me whether Geronimo is your client; I already know he is. All you need to do is tell me about him. Who is he? Where is he? What is his deal? What’s his game? Do that for me and I will let you keep your license.”
“Jesus, Stone!”
“What’s it going to be, Baxter?”
“I don’t know that much, and that’s the truth! Before you start threatening me again, the fact is I don’t know much about him at all. He plays his cards real close to his chest. He’s a weird fucking guy, I can tell you that much.”
“Where is he from?”
He shrugged. “The name is Brazilian, but he talks a lot about Spain. About a castle near Santiago de Compostela, Soto Mayor or something like that. So maybe he’s Spanish. I don’t know. It belongs to the church, and he was a custodian of the library there.”
“Where is he now?”
“All I can tell you is that he is in New York. Where, I have no idea.”
“How do you contact him?”
“I don’t. He contacts me.”
Dehan cut in, “How often?”
He hesitated, “Once every day. Before you ask, I don’t know what time. It’s randomized.”
I thought for a moment. “Would he agree to meet me?”
Baxter laughed. “No way. The minute I tell him you know about him, he will vanish.”
“Don’t tell him.”
“I don’t plan to.”
“Will you give me permission to tap your phone?”
His jaw sagged. “No. I’ll tell you what, Stone, I’ll give you my license, you wipe your ass on it and then flush it down the can. What do you think it will do for my business if it gets out I let the fucking cops tap my phone?”
“Okay!” It was Dehan. “Keep your pantyhose on, Baxter. We need to talk to this guy. He’s involved in a triple homicide. We could use your help.”
He pulled a face. “Aw, you’re breaking my heart, Detectives. So go investigate! I’m not here to wet nurse you. I got a business to run.”
“How about Tammy? You find out anything about her?”
“No. How about you?”
“Nothing you don’t know already.”
“Jeez, and me just a one-man operation. Go figure.”
“Okay, Baxter. Have it your way.” I stood. “But be careful. If I am reading him right, and I am, dos Santos is a dangerous man. People around him and Tammy Gunthersen wind up dead.”
He watched us leave. He looked scared.
Downstairs, it was already getting hot again. We got in the car, and I put the air-con on. I drove Dehan to the end of the road, and she jumped out to get a cab back to the 43rd. Meanwhile, I drove around the block, parked forty yards down the road, and waited. I waited for half an hour. At ten o’clock he came down, crossed the road, and climbed into his car, a cream Toyota. He headed south on Melrose. I let him get away a bit, then did a U-turn and followed at a distance. He joined Third Avenue and continued south all the way down to where it meets Morris Avenue. At 138th Street, he turned right and crossed the Madison Avenue Bridge. Over the river, he turned in to 5th Avenue, and I followed him down all along Central Park as far as East 68th, where he turned left, and left again into Madison Avenue. He crossed East 69th and parked on the left. I stopped short of the junction and pulled over.
I saw him get out of his car and lope across the road to push into a shop. It was on the same side as me, so I couldn’t make out the name or the window display. I got out and dodged through the traffic so I was opposite, but still forty or fifty yards away. There was a hot dog stand on the corner. It was a little early, but I bought one anyway and stood behind the stand, where I was hidden from sight but had a good view of the shop.
It was an antiques shop. Henderson & Girt, Fine Antiques. It had a plate glass front, and I could see Baxter through the window. He was talking to a woman. After a minute or two, he took out his wallet and seemed to give her a card. After that, he left.
I stood for a long while trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle. I couldn�
�t, so I crossed the road and entered the shop. The woman was still standing there, staring out at the street, as though lost in thought. She looked as though she was in her mid to late twenties, fair, with pale skin, and exquisitely dressed. I watched her a moment and thought she was probably one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She turned and looked at me. I smiled. She blinked and said, “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
She was English. She spoke what the English call cut glass English. It was as beautiful as she was. I smiled. “I’m glad you came back. I’d hate to have missed you.”
She liked the compliment but didn’t respond to it. She moved toward me. “Was there anything in particular you were looking for, or were you just browsing?”
She had taken in my clothes and noted they were unremarkable, not Armani and not Savile Row. So she wasn’t real interested. I thought I’d stimulate it a bit and said, “I’m moving into a new apartment down the road, and I was looking for a nice dining table.”
Her pupils dilated and she allowed the pleasure to show on her face. “May I ask where the apartment is?”
“Only if you come to dinner when I get my table.”
“I’d love to. Can my husband come?”
“No.”
Her cheeks colored and she stepped away. “Were you looking for something elaborately elegant, Rococo, or more restrained in the English style?”
I followed her. “I like the English style, but not too restrained.”
“We have this rather lovely Queen Anne. The line of the legs is quite exquisite.”
I stood close to her. “I have a weakness for exquisite English legs, and these are some of the nicest I have ever seen.”
She studied my face a moment, trying to read me, wondering how to respond. “Are we still talking about furniture, Mr…”
“I never was, Miss…”
“Mrs. Girt.”
I pointed back toward the door. She nodded. I smiled. “Henderson lost out.”
“You’re at risk of overplaying your hand.”
“I’m always at risk of doing something. My name is John.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that how you make your money? By taking risks?”
“Would that make a difference?”
“It might.”
Her eyes traveled past me to the plate glass window. I turned to follow her gaze. There was a big man of about sixty with a large belly and a yellow waistcoat lumbering across the road.
“Your husband.”
Our eyes met and we read each other loud and clear. Girt pushed in to the chime of a bell and walked past us toward the office in back. I said, “I’ll give some thought to your English legs, if I may…”
“You may.”
“… and I’ll get back to you.”
She picked up a card from the counter where the till stood and scrawled something on the back. She handed it to me and said, “Please do.”
I left the shop smiling, with a bounce in my step. I may even have whistled a little ditty. I looked at what she’d written on the back. It just said “Emma” and a phone number.
FIFTEEN
I didn’t leave. I sat in my car and waited, as the sun grew higher and the heat got hotter. At twelve thirty, I took off my jacket and loped across the road to get another hot dog. Then, I sat for another half hour, sweating and watching the shop.
She came out just after one. She climbed into a dark blue Lexus and took off up Madison Avenue, headed north. I followed her back the way I had come, over the Madison Avenue Bridge and back up Third Avenue. As I had suspected, she was going to see Baxter.
Sure enough, at the junction with 149th, she turned up Melrose and parked outside his block. I kept about fifty yards back and pulled in to wait and see what happened. She climbed out, ran the three steps to his building, and disappeared inside. She was in there for half an hour. Then she came out, climbed into her car, and did a U-turn, and I followed her all the way back to Madison Avenue. There she got out and went back into her shop.
My phone rang. It was Dehan.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on Madison Avenue. Why?”
“Madison Avenue?” She paused a moment. “Okay, I think we need to take another look at Peter Gunthersen.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
By the time I got back to the precinct, it was gone two. I found Dehan at her desk eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.
“What you got?”
She pointed at her full mouth and said, “You foisht.”
I shrugged. “I followed him to an antiques shop on Madison Avenue. He spoke to the owner’s wife, gave her a card, and left. I went in, chatted to her about Queen Anne furniture, and she gave me her card. Then, at one o’clock, I followed her to his office. She stayed half an hour and left.”
She swallowed. “That’s it?”
“What more do you want?”
“Impressions, thoughts?”
I shook my head. “Nothing for now. What about you?”
She stuffed the last of her sandwich in her mouth and threw a half a dozen sheets of paper, all stapled together, across the desk at me. They were Peter Gunthersen’s credit card readout for May and June 2015. Several items had been highlighted. They were a return rail ticket from San Francisco to New York, a hire car, and a room in a cheap hotel. All for the period June 12 to 15.
“Any word from ballistics?”
“I called. They haven’t got to it yet.”
“Whatever reason he was here, it was not to kill Steve Gunthersen.”
She frowned and sipped her coffee. “Okay. Why?”
“What motive could Alfonso have for telling us that elaborate story about Tammy killing Steve and Ernesto? There are two possible scenarios. One, where Ernesto and Alfonso were not there, in which case, why did he say they were? What does he gain by putting himself at the scene of Steve’s murder—especially with such an unlikely story? It also begs the question, how did he know the details of the murder scene?”
She was nodding. “No, we take it as read that he was there.”
“Okay, so if he was there, what happened? Peter was already there when he and Ernesto arrived with Danny? It plays out like Alfonso said, except that Peter was there too, and it’s Peter who pulls a gun and shoots Steve and Ernesto. That is marginally more credible than Alfonso’s story, but we have to ask, why the hell did Alfonso lie? What does he gain by protecting Peter?” I spread my hands. “He stands a much better chance of being believed by placing Peter at the scene, than by making out it was Tammy. By lying, he actually runs the risk of incriminating himself.”
“By making it look like he did it.”
“Exactly.”
“So what the hell was Peter doing in New York?”
“I think I know. Ballistics will confirm it.”
She waited, but I didn’t say any more, and after a moment she asked, “So, who’s the dame?”
“Emma Girt.”
“Emma Girt? You think she has something to do with the case?”
“Hard to tell at this stage. He went to see her after we rattled him. Gave her a card. Then at lunchtime, she went straight to see him and they spent half an hour together. Maybe she’s a client. Maybe she’s the client. I don’t know.”
She studied my face. “Is there something you are not telling me?”
I frowned and for some reason felt guilty, which made me feel a flash of irritation for a moment. “No, of course not.”
She didn’t say anything, but her face told me she didn’t believe me. My phone rang and I answered it gratefully.
“John, it’s Frank. Your rottweiler has been on my case this morning. She is lovely to look at, but man! What an attitude!” He paused, then sounded worried. “You got me on speaker?”
“I know. No, I haven’t.”
“Good. Anyway, I have a result for you on the ballistics. The two slugs are a match. Stephen Springfellow and Danny Schultz were killed with the same weapon.”
“Well, whaddaya know. That’s good news. Thanks, Frank.”
I hung up and sat staring at my desk.
When Dehan spoke, there was an edge to her voice. “You going to tell me what he said, or is this something else you’re going to keep to yourself?”
“I am not keeping anything to myself, Carmen. That was Frank…”
“I know. I saw his name on the screen. What did he want? Or is it private?”
“No! It’s not private. He had the ballistics results. They are a match. Stephen and Danny Schultz were killed with the same weapon.”
She waited. I thought. The pieces were fitting together, but the way they were fitting together didn’t make a lot of sense. Dehan spread her hands. She was beginning to look mad.
“So do the ballistics results confirm your theory or not?”
“Yes!”
“Goddamn it, Stone! What is with you? Do I have to get on my fucking knees and beg?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I was thinking.” I sighed. “The reason Peter came to New York was to deliver the gun.”
“What?”
“He came to deliver the .38.”
“How does that make any sense, Stone?”
“I don’t know yet. But so far, how does any of it make any sense? For Peter to be our killer, we need to ignore too many unexplained threads.”
“With all due respect, Stone, I think you are ignoring the obvious threads.”
“You don’t need to respect me, Dehan. Just respect the facts. The fact is Alfonso told us he was there at the killing. Peter wasn’t. But the victims were killed with Peter’s gun. The conclusion is inescapable. Somebody else used Peter’s gun. So why did Peter come to New York exactly when he did, during those dates?” I shrugged, shook my head. “If Peter killed Stephen, then did he also dress up as a southern belle, pick up Danny Schultz at Pepe’s place, and shoot him in the yard next door?”
She sighed loudly. She looked pissed. “You’re saying he came all the way from Frisco to deliver his gun to Tammy, so she could kill the man she was crazy about…? Why? Why would he do that? Why would she do that?”