by Marvin Kaye
Here I was, unarmed, facing a loaded automatic, with no plan, and a great likelihood that I’d never get to spend the retainer for this case. Yeah, I guess I really was that stupid.
“Where is it?” she asked Andorra Stevens.
Andorra said nothing.
“Where is what?” I said.
“My gawd, Doherty, haven’t you figured it out?”
“No, was I supposed to?” I was feeling tired, worried, maybe even scared.
“Well, let me clue you in. Blueblood bimbo over here figured her husband was having an affair with me.”
“But you weren’t,” I said.
“Oh my god,” Andorra Stevens gasped.
I still didn’t get it.
“So she took off with Suzie—and some insurance. A little notebook with her husband’s numbered bank accounts in Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands. And dates and amounts of transactions.” She smiled at Andorra Stevens. “I guess you figured that as long as you had the evidence of him hiding his income, he wouldn’t contest custody of your precious little darling.”
Andorra Stevens’s hand flew to her mouth. “How could I have been so stupid?” Her voice was almost a whisper.
“That’s supposed to be my line,” I said. I turned to Janet. “What I don’t understand is how you knew about the little book.”
“I overheard Armstrong talking on the phone to his attorney. He said the book was missing. It made sense Andorra took it.”
“That must be why Stevens never went to the FBI or the police. He wanted the book back and if the authorities found it, it would cost him—what—millions?”
“Your light bulb has finally switched on, Mr. Doherty.” Janet laughed. “Dim to be sure, but at least it’s on now.”
“And you suggested a very discreet, private inquiry, one you could keep track of.”
“I thought that was a good touch.”
“So Stevens goes to the Mayor who sends him to Shanahan who picks me.”
“Somebody had to be the stooge.” She was grinning at me. “The only question is whether you want to be a dead stooge?”
I shook my head. “So you had those two goons, the tall man and Chiefy encourage me to work a little harder—and to make sure Stevens didn’t get his little book back.”
“Another nice touch, don’t you think? I got a hold of Mo Vinogradov, we grew up together in the old neighborhood, and I asked him for a favor, to offer you twenty-five thousand to work the case for him.”
“Twenty-five? They only offered me ten large.”
Janet laughed loudly. “Isn’t that just like Mo, grabbing a major piece of the action for himself.”
“Except it was really small potatoes, wasn’t it? What were you going to do with the little book?”
“Shut up,” Janet said to me. She waved the pistol at Andorra Stevens. “Now where is it? Can’t remember? Maybe if little Suzie gets hurt …”
Andorra cut her off. “No, I’ll get it.” She started to move off the couch.
Janet waved the pistol at her. “Take it slow.” She walked over to Suzie and grabbed her. “Any tricks and I’ll hurt little precious.”
“Mommy.” Suzie started to struggle.
Janet looked down at her and at the same time I scooped up the glass of soda and threw it in Janet’s face. She screamed as the carbonated liquid hit her eyes and let go of Suzie, her free hand reflexively trying to wipe the liquid away. Regaining her vision, she swung her gun hand towards me. Just a little too late. I chopped the side of her neck with the blade of my hand and she sank to the floor like a sack of rocks. I knelt over her and took the auto out of her hand.
“Is she dead?” Andorra Stevens asked.
“No, but she’ll be harmless for at least half an hour.”
“What should I do, Mr. Doherty?”
I worked the action on the auto and a shell ejected. Janet Padavan had meant business.
“We’ve got to get out of here. She may not be alone.”
“Are we still in danger?” She was hugging Suzie.
“I’m afraid so.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to think this through. “I’ll go to my car and get it started. If the coast is clear, I’ll signal for you to come running with Suzie. Stay on deck until then.”
Andorra Stevens nodded and squeezed Suzie’s hand.
Outside, the sun beat down through a hazy blue sky. A lone gull sat on one of the pilings. The dock was deserted and when I reached the Boxster, I keyed the engine and eased the car over closer to the boat. I couldn’t see anyone so I stuck my arm out the window and waved to Andorra.
They came down the gangway, Suzie breaking into a run towards my car. I opened the side door and she hopped in. Her mother was about twenty feet from us when the boom of a large caliber pistol erupted from somewhere behind me and the left side view mirror shattered.
I turned to see a dark-haired, heavy set figure in a gray sweatshirt moving by the bow of a dry-docked boat. He lifted a pistol and aimed it my way, the shot spidering the windshield just above my ducking head. I pushed Suzie down onto the floor, spun and snapped off two quick rounds. The man clutched his shoulder and fell forward, sprawling on the ground.
“Stay down and don’t move,” I told the girl. Getting out of the car, I rushed over to the fallen gunman and kicked his weapon away. Kneeling next to him, I could see it was Chiefy and that he still had a pulse. Running back to the car, I got in and yelled, “Andorra, let’s go.”
I was shifting the gear into drive when a shadow loomed at my side and another shot went off, the round burning across my forearm.
“Hold it right there, Mr. Doherty.” It was the tall man. He opened the passenger side door and slid in, his feet shoving Suzie to the side.
“You’ve turned out to be a real pain in the butt,” he said, his automatic pointed down at Suzie’s head. “Where’s Janet Padavan?”
I shrugged. “Relaxing in the boat, I guess. What brings you out here? Going fishing?”
“You’re a funny man, Mr. Doherty.” He reached over and patted me, found Janet’s automatic stuffed between my thighs, and threw it out the passenger side window.
“Chiefy didn’t think so.”
“Yeah, well that’s his problem. Now, Padavan has something Mo wants, something worth a lot of money. And you’re going to help me get it. Or I kill the little girl here, then you, then her mother, and Janet, if I have to. So are you going to cooperate?”
His eyes were wide and his voice raspy, pumped up with the recent gunplay, and excited for more. So I took him at his word and nodded agreement.
“Okay, let’s go to the boat. I get out first.” The tall man reached for the door handle, his eyes still on me. He pushed the handle down, and then suddenly the lone sea gull flew off the filing and his eyes darted to the side.
I made my move, the only move I had left, grabbing his gun hand with both of mine, slamming it against the steering wheel. He was still holding the weapon and I slammed his hand again. He started punching my face with his free hand and even though he was punching at an awkward angle, the force of the blows rocked my head. But no matter how much it hurt, I knew I couldn’t let go of the other wrist. I kept holding on but I was getting weaker from the punches and from the gunshot. I twisted his wrist, taking a left on my jaw, stunning me. He was strong, as strong as I was, and he just kept whaling away at my face. Because of the close quarters he still couldn’t get a clear shot and that gave me a glimmer of hope. Still, the punches were effective and I was only holding onto the wrist of his gun hand now, no longer trying to free the weapon from his grasp. Another left pounded my ear, the concussion stunning me again. I was going under, knew it would soon be all over, when there was a crack of a gunshot and the tall man’s head snapped back and sank limply like a r
ag doll’s.
Through the blood and pain I could see the figure of Andorra Stevens standing outside the passenger’s window. She was holding Chiefy’s gun.
“Where’s Suzie?” she screamed.
I pointed at the floor.
She opened the door and pushed the tall man’s legs to the side and hugged the little girl.
“Put the gun down,” I said, hearing a dreamlike quality in my voice.
She looked at me, then set the pistol in my lap.
I didn’t touch it, just closed my eyes and listened to a loud humming in my ears. The humming was mixed with tinny piano-like noises. I opened my eyes again. Andorra was speaking to me, holding her hand out. I strained to understand what she was saying, tried to focus on her hand, what it was holding.
“What should I do with the notebook?” she asked.
I jerked my head toward the dock and the harbor beyond.
She walked over to the edge of the dock and flung the little book out onto the water. I saw tiny bubbles as it disappeared below the surface. Then I closed my eyes and listened as the humming in my ears turned to a whine and the piercing screams of sirens.
* * * *
It was five p.m. and Lou Parella and I were seated in the emergency room at Huntington Hospital. Lou was sipping a hot cup of coffee while I was having my left arm bandaged where the bullet had grazed it. An intern was picking bits of glass out of my scalp, causing me to wince.
“Can’t you even sit still when a pretty young thing is ministering to you?”
The young intern smiled. So did I. It was a moment of weakness.
“Mrs. Stevens has good aim,” Parella said.
“She does.”
“And you have good luck.”
“I do.”
“Nine millimeters cause lots of damage at close range. You have really good luck. What the hell happened?”
“It’s a long story, Lou.”
“Well, Suffolk County Homicide wants to hear it.”
“How did you get out here?” I said.
He laughed. “Mo Vinogradov has been causing a lot of problems for Brooklyn North Auto Crimes. On a hunch, I had my boys tail those two jamokes. They radioed me when they spotted your Boxster. I told them to sit tight. Then the gunplay started. You know, everywhere you go, blood seems to spill.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m just a social pariah.” I looked around. “Is the little girl okay?”
“Suzie? Ike took her down to the cafeteria for some ice cream.”
I winced again as the intern applied some antiseptic. “What do you know about this?” I asked Parella.
“My guys were about to rush your car when Mrs. Stevens pops up and blows half of the tall man’s head off.”
“Where is she?”
“With the Homicide boys. When they let her go, Littlefield and Bowman want to take a crack at her.”
“She doesn’t know anything,” I said.
Parella threw me a fish eye.
“She’s a tough cookie,” I said, changing the subject. “She and her daughter sailed the yacht down from Newport by themselves. Besides, the feds have nothing to hold her on. She’s not her husband.”
Parella shrugged. “Too bad for them that Stevens didn’t leave a paper trail.”
“Yeah, too bad.” Stevens would never know it, though, that his little notebook with all the incriminating evidence was a soggy mass of paper and ink blobs at the bottom of the harbor. As far he knew, Andorra had stashed it somewhere for safekeeping and I was sure that she would never disabuse him of that notion.
And he would stay married to her. To his bitter half.
A SHORT, SHARP, SHOCK, by Melville S. Brown
The woman stood on the corner of Edgeware Road and waved frantically for a taxi. There was an astonishing amount of traffic for a Sunday morning, but that was London in July. The weather was actually warm and sunny, and it seemed as if half the planet had come for a visit. She leaned out and was nearly sideswiped by a bus turning the corner.
Eventually a cab pulled up, and the woman jumped in, carrying a large satchel with papers sticking out of it. “Thirteen, Beaufort Place, please, and hurry!” she called out to the driver.
The cab drove south past the Marble Arch, with the driver, a Pakistani, weaving from one lane to another as best he could. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his passenger, who looked anxiously out the window. She was a young Englishwoman with short, dark hair, dressed in a navy blue suit.
“Working so early on a Sunday, Miss?” the driver said.
“Yes, I’m an estate agent. I have to get ready to show a flat to some clients.” She glanced at her watch nervously, then stared out the window some more.
A few blocks later the woman’s cell phone rang. “No, Simon, I won’t be home for several hours,” the driver heard her say. “I told you last night, remember? This showing will take me most of the day.”
She rang off and the driver looked at her again. She put down her phone and leaned back to stare out the window.
“Well, it’s a lovely day, Miss!” he said. The woman didn’t answer. She just looked forlornly out the window, yawning conspicuously. The driver took his cue and didn’t say anything more. He knew the English and their signals.
The driver raced past Hyde Park and finally stopped at a red light. Crowds of tourists passed in front of the taxi on their way to Buckingham Palace, where they could hang around hoping for a glimpse of a royal, or have their photo taken with a Beefeater.
Confused by the lights and traffic, they looked in both directions, inched forwards and backwards, then bravely shoved on. The driver honked impatiently when the light changed, and roared off at breakneck speed.
He pulled up in front of the house in record time, stopped the meter, and turned around. “That’ll be seven pounds, fifty, Miss.”
The woman stared out the window, mouth agape. She didn’t move.
Detective Inspector Septimus Bracegirdle, wearing his best summer suit and tweaking his mustache, looked at the scene with dismay. It was a damned inconvenient time for a murder. He had been on a leisurely walk to St. Paul’s Cathedral for the ten o’clock service when his Blackberry went off. Scotland Yard had ordered him over to South Kensington, miles away from Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, and he would never get back in time. Who knew when the Byrd Mass in Five Voices would be performed again, in such heavenly acoustics?
The woman’s body had been pulled from the taxi she’d arrived in, and two emergency workers were frantically giving her artificial respiration. The driver, another refugee from the Jewel in the Crown, was shrieking to two young policemen that he knew nothing, that the passenger was fine when he picked her up.
“I tell you, she was okay!” he protested. “I drove really fast, like she asked me! We got here, I turned around, and she is dead. I never touch her!”
The two policemen, one a chubby blond kid, the other dark and athletic, looked at him skeptically. “Cool off a bit, mate,” the blond one said to the driver.
“I say, who is this woman, does anyone know yet?” Bracegirdle said to no one in particular.
The handsome, dark kid came over. “Margaret St. Clair is her name. The driver says she was selling flats here.” He scratched his head. “Probably makes a bloody fortune.”
“Made,” corrected Bracegirdle.
“Right. Well, Paki here says she wasn’t up for a chat. They exchanged a few words, she talked to her husband on her cell, and that’s it. Heart attack, if you ask me.” He shrugged.
Bracegirdle looked back at the EMTs working on the body. They had torn her clothes open and were pounding her chest like bread dough. God save me from being rescued, thought the detective, as they blew air into her and pummeled her breasts.
He
glanced into the cab and saw a cell phone on the floor. He put on gloves, then reached down and picked up the phone, holding it carefully in his palm. As he was looking it over, the EMTs put the woman into an ambulance with an oxygen mask. One of them, a tall fellow with flushed cheeks, came over to him.
“I think we got her back,” he said. “But we won’t know until she wakes up.”
Bracegirdle raised his eyebrows. “She was still alive when you got here, then?”
“We didn’t think so at first, because she was completely still and not breathing. But there was a pulse, so we went to work straight away.”
“Not a heart attack, then?”
“No. A stroke, possibly.”
“Awfully young for a stroke, don’t you think?” Bracegirdle smiled and twisted his mustache. The EMT looked miffed and walked away.
Bracegirdle studied her phone. It was badly scratched, and a tiny splinter of metal casing stuck out just below the screen. The splinter was slightly stained.
“Just a minute,” Bracegirdle said, and jumped into the ambulance. He looked at the woman’s face under the oxygen mask closely. Just below her left ear was a small scratch which had begun to heal. He got out and went over to the driver, a slight, dark-skinned man in wrinkled, loose-fitting, Indian clothing, who was nervously smoking a cigarette.
“Tell me, young man, who did your passenger talk to on her cell phone?” Bracegirdle asked.
“I don’t know. Someone named Simon.” The driver stubbed out his cigarette. “I think her husband.”
“Did she ring him, or did he make the call?”
“He rang her. It was very short, she didn’t want to talk much.”
“And do you remember anything she said?”
“Just that she’d be busy all day. She was a little angry because she had to remind him.”
Bracegirdle took out his Blackberry and called Scotland Yard. “Septimus here.” Everyone knew him by his first name. “Look, can you find out anything about a Margaret St. Clair for me? Also, her husband if you can. Yes, call me back as soon as you know.”