“What?”
“Apparently he drove up to Silver Hill after the Sunday matinee and checked himself in.”
Silver Hill was a rehab center for the flush of pocketbook. The hallowed celebrity rehab had over the years welcomed the likes of Mariah Carey, Billy Joel, Liza Minnelli, and Billy Joel. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why didn’t he let anyone know? The show? His manager? Someone?”
“Apparently he was a basket case, Detective—burnt out, broken, and on the verge of a mental breakdown. He drove there right after the show and checked himself in. Supposedly he was in such bad shape that they took away his phone, sedated him, and he slept for two days straight.”
I turned to Lido and mouthed, “Are you hearing this?”
He nodded.
I covered the receiver. “Sounds like a load of crap to me.” I thought for a moment before asking, “How did Singer make contact?”
“On his cell phone,” Green replied. “He called the show producers to apologize for missing today’s performance. Apparently he’s going to be out for weeks.”
“Has anyone seen him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Uh-huh. Is there anything else?”
“Only that my story will be on page one.”
I’m so happy for you. “Thanks for the call, Hank. I’ve got to run.” I disconnected and turned to Lido. “Call the New Canaan police in Connecticut. Tell them we need a quick favor.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
We were on our way to pick up the signed warrant to search Ira Bascom’s apartment and in a damned hurry to do so.
“Turn here,” Lido blurted.
“I don’t think so. It’s faster this way.”
“No, it’s not. Turn!” he insisted.
“Are you sure?”
“I know the city like the back of my hand,” Lido advised. “I’m a regular Ponce de León.”
I smashed the brake and whipped the car around a hairpin turn.
“Yee-haw! Your driving is giving me a woodie,” Lido hollered.
“A woodie? Keep it in your pants, Ponce.” What I really meant was, Do you really? I’ll have to remember to drive the car like it was stolen at all times.
Lido’s cell phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID. “It’s the New Canaan police.” He hit the Accept button and took the call. “This is Gus Lido.”
“Hey, Detective, this is Officer Clarkson with the New Canaan police. My sergeant asked me to take a run over to the Silver Hill Hospital and check on a patient you’re interested in. Rory Singer.”
“That’s correct.”
“He’s not here, Detective.”
“Could he have checked in under another name?” Lido asked.
“Not possible. I asked about that, and all patients have to provide photo ID and insurance information. Sorry, Detective, this was a wild-goose chase. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No. That’s it. Thanks.” Lido disconnected. “You heard?”
“Yeah. I heard it, but I’m not surprised by it. I think Singer’s lying in the morgue with his face smashed to bits.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Who has motive?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? I think Ira Bascom knows more than he’s telling us.”
“I think so too, but why did he go out of his way by coming to the morgue with us, trying to establish that John Doe wasn’t Koufax?”
“To divert suspicion, I’d say. He presented himself as helpful and caring so we’d think he was an all right kind of guy. Of course, he was far less hospitable on our second visit, and I’ll bet he’ll be even less cooperative this next time around.”
Lido had been balls-on accurate. His directions had shaved minutes off our travel time. I hit the brakes as we pulled up in front of the courthouse. “I’ll wait here. Grab the warrant and we’ll race across the bridge to Brooklyn. I’ll get on the horn and make some calls.”
“You got it,” Lido said. He was clearly jazzed by the velocity with which the case was accelerating, moving forward like a nitrous-burning dragster. A team was already on site at Bascom’s apartment house, sifting through the recycling bin. Police analysts were studying the theater security tapes. I felt the focus of our investigation narrowing down, and I had a theory as to the killer’s motive, but it was way out there and I wasn’t prepared to commit. My first call would be to Tully. I was going to ask him to run another test on John Doe. I dialed his direct number, hoping that my suspicions were correct and that he’d be in the mood to cooperate.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“GPS is telling me to turn.”
“No. Go straight,” Lido insisted. “Who are you going to listen to, the man who discovered the fountain of youth or a squawking voice that was programmed in a factory in China? I was right last time, wasn’t I?”
Fair enough. “Go straight?”
“Yeah. Straight, then hang a right at the second light.”
This is great. My new partner has a built-in telemetry system. Cool! I sped ahead and hung a right turn as instructed.
“Perfect. The apartment house should be a quarter mile up on the right.”
“I’m impressed. You’re one hell of a navigator.” Now if he’s half as good at finding a woman’s G-spot …
A crime scene technician was walking toward his van. He waved when he saw us and held up a large evidence bag. I recognized the contents, a gallon container of antifreeze. By itself the plastic container meant nothing, but if we found Bascom’s fingerprints on it and were able to match the chemical composition of that brand of antifreeze to the antifreeze that had poisoned John Doe … I was convinced that Bascom was involved in the bombing and murder and was building our court case in my head. There wasn’t yet enough evidence to convince a jury, but we were one step closer to a conviction and I had an ace up my sleeve.
We raced up the stairs. I pounded on Bascom’s door but got no response. “Mr. Bascom, it’s Detectives Chalice and Lido. Open up now!” My request went unanswered, so I pulled out my phone and tried an old trick. I dialed Bascom’s cell phone and put my ear to the door. I heard his cell phone ring immediately. “I know you’re in there, Mr. Bascom. We have a warrant to search your home, so unless you want us to break down the door …”
I heard the security chain being unlatched a moment later and then the doorknob turned. Bascom was wearing a robe. “This isn’t a good time for me,” he said.
Is it ever?
Lido held up the search warrant and smacked it against his open palm. “It just became a good time,” he said authoritatively.
Bascom closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled through his nostrils like an enraged bull. He ultimately stepped aside.
“Let me see that warrant,” Bascom said hotly.
So now what, he’s going to pretend he’s Perry Mason? Actors, they’re all so full of themselves. They actually believe their own bullshit. I studied his delicate hands as he reached for the warrant. Bingo. Now it all makes sense. “Look okay to you?”
He studied the document a moment longer before commenting. “I suppose so,” he said reluctantly. “I hope you’ll leave everything the way you found it.”
Sure, and I’ll get down on my hands and knees and wax the floor before I leave.
Once within, it was obvious that Bascom was not alone. A guest sheepishly appeared at the bedroom door, stuffing his shirt into his slacks. Eli Danziger seemed embarrassed to have been literally caught with his pants down, but I wasn’t all that surprised to see him. I was still playing my cards close to the vest until I was absolutely sure that my theory was airtight.
I moseyed over to the credenza and examined one of Bascom’s small stone carvings. I could’ve picked any of them, but for some reason one particular statuette cried out to me, a carving of a hand holding an erect penis. I turned it over and saw that the sculptor had carved the initials IB into the base.
Lido saw me holding the phallic figu
rine, and seemed to be more than mildly amused.
“This is your handiwork, Mr. Bascom?”
“Yes. They all are. Does that make me a murderer?”
Perhaps.
“What are you looking for anyway? I had nothing to do with Lenny Koufax’s death.”
“We know that.”
“You do?”
“That’s right,” Lido volunteered. “We found Mr. Koufax several hours ago, and we’re happy to report that he’s alive and well.”
Bascom and Danziger exchanged worried glances. They did their best but were unable to hide the exchange from us.
“That’s-that’s great news,” Danziger exclaimed. “Where’d you find Lenny?”
“He was bound, gagged, and locked in his dressing room at the Al Hirschfeld Theater.”
“Huh,” Bascom uttered with surprise. “Imagine that.”
“Apparently someone coldcocked him on Monday morning and left him to rot. I hear that Pervy Pumps is fantastic. Either of you two gentlemen see it recently?”
“Too expensive for me,” Danziger replied.
Bascom simply said, “No.” I was still holding the statuette, which didn’t seem to make him too happy. “So then what are you doing here? I take it that Lenny’s fine. What do you need with me?”
“There’s still the matter of the bombing and the murder of John Doe,” Lido said.
“Who’s John Doe?” Danziger asked.
“One of the victims was not killed by the explosion. He was poisoned and had his face smashed in with a blunt hammer to render him unrecognizable before his body was moved to the scene of the bombing.”
“That’s absurd,” Bascom pooh-poohed. “How do you police come up with such utter prattle?”
“Forensics. John Doe’s face was smashed in with a blunt object.” I held out the outrageous statuette to drive home my point. “Perhaps a sculptor’s hammer. One was found in the basement of the chabad, with traces of blood on it. We believe that John Doe is Rory Singer, the stage actor. Are either of you two acquainted with him?”
“I’ve met him,” Danziger confessed timidly.
“Quiet, Eli,” Bascom snapped. “Don’t you see what’s going on here? They’re trying to goad us into confessing to the crime. Proletarians,” he huffed. “You want to search my home? Go search, but I’m not saying another word.”
“Fine with us,” I said as I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “This shouldn’t take very long at all. You see, the producers of Singer’s show received a call from him a short time ago in which he said that he had checked himself into a rehab in Connecticut.”
“And?” Bascom snapped.
“We sent someone to the rehab to check, and he’s not there. So someone must’ve called the show producers on Singer’s cell phone pretending to be him—an actor perhaps. All we have to do …” I hit the autodial button and held a hand to my ear. Within moments a cell phone began ringing in the bedroom. I glared at Bascom. “Could that person have been you?”
“Of course not,” Bascom spat.
“Then why, may I ask, is Rory Singer’s cell phone in your bedroom?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“How about a ride, handsome?”
Lido smiled as we left the station house. It was after four p.m. on Saturday afternoon, and we had just finished the paperwork on the three homicide victims found at the chabad. “Where to?” he asked. “I’m not used to doing the driving when you’re around.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. You seem seasoned enough to take a turn behind the wheel.” Or me.
He smirked. “That’s real big of you.”
“I know. I’m a great partner. You hit the lottery when you were assigned to work with me, Lido.”
“Really?” he chuckled.
“I’m meeting my mother for a quick bite before the theater.”
“What are you seeing?”
“Pervy Pumps,” I confessed. “Darhansoff comped me a pair of tickets.”
His eyes grew large. “What about parity for your partner?”
“I thought you hated the theater.”
“Yeah, I do. Just busting your chops,” he admitted as we walked to the car.
I tossed him the keys. “Show me what you’ve got, rookie, and keep in mind that if you don’t know how to handle a car properly, I’ll remind you of it every day of your life.”
He rolled his eyes as he got behind the wheel. “You think Bascom and Danziger will be found guilty?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“So yes, then?”
“I think we’ve got their asses pretty solidly nailed.” Forensics had come back on John Doe’s DNA, proving that he was in fact Rory Singer, and fibers found on the deceased matched Eli Danziger’s wool winter coat. I doubted that we’d get a confession from him, but Danziger had been in the army, and I know for fact that anyone who completes basic training knows how to detonate an explosive charge, so a coffee-can bomb was well within his range of expertise.
The security video at the Al Hirschfeld Theater showed that Danziger had attended the Sunday matinee. All he had to do was hide overnight, sneak downstairs to the lower level dressing rooms, wait for Koufax to arrive on Monday morning, and knock him unconscious. I had chatted with Koufax subsequent to his being rescued and learned that both Bascom and Danziger knew that he was planning to spruce up his dressing room before work on Monday, and that he was meeting Singer at the theater.
Bascom was complicit as well. Prints found on the heavy sculptor’s hammer were his. His prints were found on the container of antifreeze recovered from the recycling bin, as well as on a Jamba Juice container found in a garbage pail outside the chabad. The tested Jamba Juice container revealed traces of ethylene glycol, the substance used to poison Singer. We also found a ticket for the Wednesday matinee of Pervy Pumps at Bascom’s apartment. My guess was that he was planning to sneak downstairs and unlock Koufax’s dressing room during the performance. All he had to do was push the door open without allowing Koufax to see him. He must’ve known that the cleaning staff would be coming by on Wednesday evening and would discover Koufax in the opened dressing room. At that point Koufax would’ve been without water for two and a half days and fatal dehydration doesn’t generally occur for at least a week, so there was a safe margin for error. Koufax was never meant to be a victim. They just needed him out of the way in order to murder Singer.
“You said that you weren’t surprised to see Danziger in Bascom’s apartment, but you never explained why.”
“Well, my fledgling detective, not to toot my own horn, but it all comes down to being observant.”
“Here she goes again,” Lido bellyached.
“When we first met Eli Danziger, I noticed odd black streaks on his fingernails, running from his cuticles to the tips of his nails.”
“That was a clue?”
“Not in itself, but when I went back to the morgue, I asked to see John Doe’s body again and he had those black streaks on his nails as well.”
“Black streaks?” Lido seemed puzzled. “Is that some new gay thing, like wearing one left earring?”
“If only that were the case,” I lamented. “Bascom had them as well.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I wish I were. Once I noticed those streaks on Doe’s nails, I called Tully and asked him to run a quick test on Doe. It was positive.”
“For?”
I grimaced sadly. “The black nail striations are a common symptom of someone who’s positive for HIV.”
Lido’s mouth dropped. “All three of them?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m guessing that Bascom and Danziger got the virus from Singer, and they decided to murder him for passing it to them. More than likely Singer knew that he was infected and kept quiet about it. As for Koufax, I’m guessing that they needed him out of the way and that he was probably the one who had introduced them to Singer in the first place.”
Lido started the engine
and pulled out into traffic. It had been the most savage winter in memory and I absolutely couldn’t wait for spring to arrive.
“Koufax told us that he was supposed to meet Singer at the theater Monday morning before work. He was going to help Koufax set up his dressing room and then walk him over to the chabad. That had to be the reason why he left home so early. They were fast friends. Singer vouched for Koufax’s acting skills so that he’d get a role in Pervy Pumps, and … I fear he was Singer’s lover way before the other two,” I said glumly. “He must’ve been more careful than Bascom or Danziger. I hope he’s all right.” I sighed deeply. “Thank God HIV is no longer the death sentence it used to be.”
I doubted that Bascom and Danziger would ever confess to their crimes, but with the opportunity for the DA to play one off against the other, perhaps one of them would flip.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Chalice, you certainly have your shit together. I hope I have what it takes.”
“Don’t sweat it, rookie. You’ll do just fine.”
“So I guess Bascom intercepted Singer that morning and made some excuse for redirecting him to the chabad, something like Koufax overslept and wouldn’t have time to visit the theater that morning. Maybe they knew that he liked Jamba Juice and …”
“That’s the way I have it figured.”
“And a few blocks away Danziger slugged Koufax and tied him up.”
“Yup.” I saw Ma waiting for me outside of Becco, one of our favorite before-theater restaurants. “There she is,” I said, pointing her out to Lido. She looked as if she was shivering. “Want to meet her?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Um, it’s so cold. Maybe next time, okay?”
“No pressure, rookie. I already dropped enough crap in your lap this week. By the way, you did great.”
“Thanks.” He smiled appreciatively. “Have fun with your mom.”
I got out of the car and raced across the street.
“It’s about time,” Ma complained before kissing me on both cheeks. “You no-good kid. I’m freezing out here.”
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