Milo said, “Daddy’s a gem? Family had a sense of humor? If they’d ponied up for a second line, he’d be multifaceted?”
I smiled but wondered if a joke had been in play. Something else about a gem…
Nothing came to me and I sat there as Milo phoned the New York City medical examiner, learned that death records from 1918 through 1950 were maintained by the city’s Municipal Archives. A clerk there informed him even law enforcement sources were required to fill out an application, though the ten-dollar fee might be waived. Or maybe not.
“How long will it take to process the application, ma’am?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“All kinds of things.”
“Please put your supervisor on.”
A woman named Leticia was willing to pull the file and read the summary over the phone because “my husband and both brothers are cops. But if you want a Xerox, Lieutenant, you do need to do it officially.”
“Let’s see what it says, first.”
She was back in a moment. “You know, this one’s kind of interesting.” She recited the summary. Milo told her he’d definitely want a copy, would get back to her.
He hung up, wide-eyed.
Fred Bullard Drancy had suffered massive internal bleeding and blunt-force trauma due to a fall from the tenth floor of a vacant building on East 65th Street near Second Avenue. The structure had been undergoing remodeling for months, was deemed unsafe to enter except by authorized personnel. What Drancy had been doing there at night had never been ascertained. Seventy years later, manner of death remained undetermined.
Milo said, “I’m gonna go out on a limb and determine he got pushed. Jesus.”
I said, “Ratting out Hoke was a risky move. And maybe being a gem wasn’t family puffery, more like a bitter in-joke. They knew he was murdered.”
I pointed to the date of the obit. “Not long after Hoke began his sentence. Behind bars but far from impotent.”
“Long arm of the lawless,” he said.
“The boss was incarcerated but his minions were free. Including his true love, living comfortably at the Aventura, working a legitimate accounting job and managing to evade law enforcement attention. I’ve been assuming Thalia’s concerns about criminal behavior were related to someone else. But what if she was talking about herself? Not just because of her money laundering for Hoke. What if she’d helped set up the hit on Drancy? Or knew about the contract and did nothing to stop it?”
“All this time later, she gets an attack of the guilts?”
“End-of-life introspection,” I said. “It’s pretty common. And her needing to atone would explain leaving everything to charity.”
“Then why was she killed?”
“Because someone else judged her guilty.”
He frowned. “Drancy spawn.”
“The push from the tenth floor could’ve become enshrined as family lore. The kind of thing that can harden over time into outrage. The right spawn comes along, a decision’s made to set things right and profit in the process.”
He wheeled back from his desk, swerved sharply to avoid colliding with my knee. It happens all the time when we’re coexisting in a space meant for a lapdog. No injuries to date; he’s a master of the near-miss.
“I don’t know about the introspection bit,” he said. “If Thalia was visited by Drancy kin, I can see her wanting to discuss felony genetics with an expert. Especially one with police contacts.”
“You could be right,” I said. “But looking back to her mood when we spoke, there was no extreme fear. At the most, curiosity with an edge, and maybe not even that.”
“It was enough of an edge to make you wonder what she was really after, amigo. Let’s say this particular bit of Drancy DNA came across nonthreatening. Like a good-looking chick claiming to just wanna learn more about Grandpa Fred. But Thalia was no dummy, she knew what had happened to Grandpa Fred and it put her guard up. So she thought a bit, decided to groom you as a chat-buddy. Bide her time, if things got scarier, you’d connect her with me. Problem was, everything moved too fast and she was caught off guard.”
He stood, stretched, sat back down. “Whatever the case, there’s still the big question: Why wait so long to get even? Unless the D-clan learned something new.”
“Confirmation of Thalia’s involvement in the hit.”
“Or a heavily sweetened pot, Alex. I can’t let go of the profit motive, nine times out of ten a case like this revolves around money. What if Cutie showed up at Thalia’s bungalow after learning about—or just suspecting—a serious cash stash?”
He re-read Demarest’s report, placed the two sheets back in the blue folder, looked up the archive online application form, and printed it.
Muttering, “Waste of time but dot the t’s. Let’s get some coffee.”
We were ten steps closer to the stairs when his phone rang. Still on speaker.
“Milo? Len Gottlieb.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Something actually,” said Gottlieb. “Sometimes a guy gets lucky. And I’m such a saint, I’m gonna share.”
CHAPTER
29
We retrieved the unmarked from the lot, drove west to Centinela, then south, just past Jefferson, to a block of tired-looking small businesses, restaurants, and bars.
Len Gottlieb was waiting on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and bouncing on his heels in front of a block-faced tavern called the Windjam.
Milo said, “What, they ran out of letters?”
I said, “Maybe they’re into music. Heavy-metal oboes.”
We got out, were greeted by Gottlieb’s fist-bumps. “Guess how many places I tried before I found this dive?”
“Five.”
“One. This was number two.”
“Unbelievable, Len.”
“Maybe God really does love me. That’s what my name means, God-love.” He inhaled smoke. “Maybe He’ll even protect me from the results of this filthy habit. Anyway, this is where DeGraw watered himself after work. Regularly and pretty heavily, bartender says they had to cut him off several times, the fact that he was driving made them nervous.”
“All that spit and polish,” said Milo, “and turns out he was a sloppy drunk.”
“Not sloppy-aggressive,” said Gottlieb. “He never caused problems, would just fall asleep and they’d have trouble waking him up.”
I said, “What did it take to get him to that point?”
“Meaning?”
“Did he need to be stressed to drown his sorrows? Did he ever express himself?”
“Hmm,” said Gottlieb. “Let’s find out.”
—
No sailing motif inside Windjam. Nothing musical, either. The starkest drinking-dive I’d ever seen north of downtown: a single anorexic room that was mostly lacquer-top bar, the sides diamond-stitched black leatherette glued unevenly.
Bolted-in stools were wood-grain and blue vinyl. Vats for well-booze took up more space than bulk bottles of low-priced spirits. On the opposite side, a couple of tables, unoccupied.
No pool table, no jukebox, no stage, nothing on pine walls aged a better bourbon color than the bottles. Vintage Beach Boys sputtered through tinny speakers perched in two corners. “Don’t Worry Baby” deserving better fidelity.
The two beer-hounds at the far end of the bar didn’t seem to mind the ambience. A slew of empty bottles and foamy splotches said the corpulent barkeep’s work ethic had flagged.
As we approached him, he saluted and motioned us away from the drinkers. Sparse hair, small Buffalo Bill beard under which two supplementary chins flourished. He wore a tan work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
One of those hard-fat guys, tightly packed, with powerful shoulders and ham-hock forearms. Tattoos on both arms: Semper Fi, a bald eagle, Uncle Sam wanting someone, Mom in a winged heart. Tradition flourished.
Len Gottlieb said, “This is Stan, he’s been real helpful.”
Milo said, “
Appreciate it, Stan.”
Stan said, “Swissair gets himself killed? Only thing to do is help you guys.”
“Swissair.”
“Never knew his name, sir, but when I asked him where he was from he said Bern. I thought he was being an asshole, telling me to put lighter fluid on myself or something. I almost kicked his ass out. I guess he didn’t like the look on my face so he told me it’s a city in Switzerland, that’s where he’s from. So I started calling him Swissair, that’s their airline.”
Not for a decade. No sense getting picky.
Gottlieb tapped the bar. “Stan says DeGraw’s been coming in for around two years. Off and on but when it’s on, it’s like three, four times a week, always evenings.”
“Looked to me like an after-work deal, we get a lot of those,” said Stan. “He’d be wearing this maroon jacket and a tie. Couple of shots, the tie would come off. Bunch more, his head would go this way.”
One hand mimed a slow descent. “I didn’t want one of those lawsuits so I kept an eye on him, told my wife to do the same when she was tending. We worked out a system. The tie comes off, he gets three more, tops. He never argued. Never said much of anything, just sat by himself and put it away.”
“What was his pleasure?” said Milo.
Stan said, “Scotch.”
Gottlieb said, “Here’s the main thing: DeGraw always came in alone until three weeks ago when he had a companion.”
“Really,” said Milo.
Stan said, “Oh, man.” Thick arms shaped an hourglass figure.
Milo said, “Cute, huh?”
“More than cute, juicy. I’m thinking, what’s he doing with something like that?”
“They get all lovey-dovey?”
“Nah,” said Stan. “But he tried to impress her. Before, he never ordered a brand, this time he wanted Crown Royal. Waste of time, she wasn’t into brown, ordered Stoli.”
Gap-toothed smile. “What they got was Canadian Mist and Smirnoff. And no hoochie-coo, all they did was drink and talk.”
“About what?”
“How should I know? I’m here, they’re there.”
Gottlieb said, “Stan says she wore a blond wig.”
“I could tell it was a wig ’cause it was too perfect. Like back-in-the-day-Farrah, those wings and things?” He exhaled, wiped his hands on his shirt. “Some body on her, what’s Swissair doing with that? But then I could see they weren’t like that.”
I said, “Nothing physical going on.”
“Nah, they just talked and he waved his little book around, then she left and he did his usual slop till you drop.”
Gottlieb said, “What book?”
“This little book,” said Stan. “Red. He’s showing it to her, she looks at it once, then she leaves.”
Milo said, “Maybe a passport?”
Stan shrugged. “Beats me, I never had one. They’re red? That’s kind of communist.”
Gottlieb said, “Ours are blue.” He looked at Milo.
Stan’s attention had wandered to the men at the bar. “Something?” he called over.
Head shakes.
Gottlieb said, “Anything else you can say about this hot thing, Stan?”
The barman outlined another hourglass. “What looked like real tits, nice and high. Confident tits, ya know?”
Milo said, “How about if we bring a sketch artist over.”
Stan picked at his chin. “Never done that before.”
“Maybe it’s time for an adventure, my friend.”
“Hmm. Sure, why not, live dangerously. But I’m not swearing to nothing. I coulda seen her topless, I’d remember a whole lot better.”
“No need to swear, Stan. Just do your best.” To Gottlieb: “Okay if I use one of my Rembrandts?”
“Better than okay.”
“I’ll give him this.” He fished out a business card, showed it to Gottlieb.
Gottlieb said, “Be my guest, he’s already got mine.”
Stan pocketed the card without reading it.
Milo said, “Hot Stuff shows up again, please call Detective Gottlieb or me. And if you can catch a license plate, you’ll be a hero.”
“She’s bad news, huh?”
“She interests us.”
“Hot Stuff, yeah, that’s her,” said Stan. He licked the back of his hand. Drew it back and said, “Sssssss.”
—
We left the bar.
Gottlieb said, “With DeGraw taken care of, why would she come back here?”
“Hope springs eternal, Len.”
“Maybe in your world. Anyway, at least we got the confirmation: DeGraw was in with your suspects and wanted out. She came here to discuss it, he shows her his passport, assures her he’ll be leaving pronto once he’s paid off. She says it’s a deal, they arrange a meet at his place, she distracts him, I don’t even want to know how. When he’s not paying attention, your other two walk in and off him.”
Milo said, “He becomes just like Swissair. No longer in business.”
“Tough shit for him,” said Gottlieb. “Do that to an old lady.” He lit up another cigarette. “So. We got confirmation of our theory but, again, I don’t see any clear path to my case until you close yours and maybe someone talks.”
“Agreed, Len, I’ll carry the ball. But if you do learn something—like you did today—”
“Sure,” said Gottlieb. “But the thing you need to know is I’ve got vacation time coming up. Assuming the Boss Wife can keep her schedule clear. So I may be out of commission for a couple weeks.”
“Where you headed to?”
“Mexico, maybe Cabo,” said Gottlieb. “Maybe Puerto V. Best-case scenario, a beach with Hot Stuffs in bikinis who don’t want to kill anyone.”
—
We watched him drive away. I said, “He just disconnected from the case.”
“That’s okay, he’s right, it does all depend on me.” Rubbing his face, Milo checked his phone. “Moe watched Ricki S. last night, she went home, stayed there. Sean’s on tonight, let’s see.”
“Keep that eternal hope going.”
“Thanks for not laughing, talk about a true friend.”
He slapped my back lightly, returned to his phone. “Let’s see if Maestro Shimoff has time to do a drawing.”
Detective II Alex Shimoff, a Russian-trained painter and the man Milo calls “the other Alexander,” was working a commercial burglary case in the toy district.
He said, “Culver City doesn’t have anyone who can do it?”
“Anyone else is at the stick-figure stage, you’re a master.”
“Right,” said Shimoff. “When do you need this?”
“Sooner would be better than later, kiddo.”
“Of course…okay, we just moved to Westchester, Culver’s basically on my way home. This bartender work late?”
“You could do it tonight?”
“Probably.”
“Lemme ask him.”
We returned to the Windjam. The pair of drinkers had added to their bottle collection and the bar-top remained splotched. The music had changed, though. Sammy Hagar, poor fidelity giving him a lisp.
Stan, eyelids drooping, sat fooling with his cuticles. When he saw us the lids remained lowered but the spheres behind them rolled upward.
Milo asked him.
He said, “Probably.”
“Any way you can switch that to a yes, Stan? If I have Detective Shimoff give you an hour’s notice?”
“Detective? He’s a cop, also draws?”
“Multitalented,” said Milo.
“Got a kid who draws. Does crap in school but makes these comic books, crazy stuff. They say he’s good. You think this detective could talk some sense into him?”
“Let’s aim for that, Stan.”
“Then, yeah. What time?”
Milo redialed Shimoff. To Stan: “Between eight and nine.”
“I’ll be here,” said the barkeep. “Get the kid over, maybe bring a comic book he done. He
likes to stay in his room, I’ll drag him over.”
—
Back outside, Milo reached Shimoff again. “Appreciate it, Czar Alexei. Also, the witness might bring his kid to watch you work.” He explained.
Shimoff said, “So now I’m a career counselor?”
“You’ve always been good at multitasking.”
“Walk and chew gum, eh?”
“I owe you.”
“You always do.”
—
The following morning a screen shot of the drawing was in my email. Shimoff to Milo to me, no topic heading.
Beautifully rendered portrait of a generic gorgeous blonde. Monroe, if you squinted. A bit more angular if you didn’t.
I couldn’t see much value in it, kept that to myself and sent a text: Binchy see anything last night?
Instead of replying in kind, Milo phoned. “Nada. Speaking of Ricki S., the crime lab’s asking when I’m gonna get Thalia’s stuff out of storage and talk to her executor. They have it in an auto bay, someone crashes while shooting or being shot at, they’ll need the space. Given who the executor is, I obviously want to hold off. Meanwhile, I’m heading back to the hotel, see if anyone has a story to tell about the cute blonde.”
“Good luck.”
“I was figuring to bop by and pick you up.”
“Sure,” I said.
“No sandwiches necessary, had a big breakfast.”
—
Alicia Bogomil said, “Yup, that’s her. Probably. Only saw her a couple of times. With the dudes and then by herself. She was walking in front, that’s a switch. Had a bod, showed it off.” Forming two balloons on her own flattish chest.
I said, “Tight clothes?”
“Tight clothes and posture.” She stood up straight, arched her back, accentuated her torso. “Bod-confidence, you know? Like she liked being looked at.”
Milo said, “A performer.”
Bogomil said, “Hmm. Yeah. So maybe she’s an actress or something.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re saying she—they—definitely had something to do with it?”
“Not yet,” he lied. “You ever see her with DeGraw?”
“No, why?”
“He just got murdered.”
Her mouth dropped open. “No shit! Oh, man, so that’s why he hasn’t been around. You’re kidding—crap! How?”
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