by Ken Brigham
“Maybe so, and I know what you mean. But I can’t sell it to my boss. I’m sure of that.”
Shane wheeled himself out onto the deck. The sun was just beginning to stripe the alley with the morning lattice of bright white that greeted early risers on clear days. There was a lull in the conversation, each of the detectives thinking to himself. Finally, Shane spoke.
“How long can you stall your people?”
Hardy sighed, “I’m sure Goetz’ll be on my case this morning. I don’t see how I can delay giving him the obvious answer. What’s likely to happen that will change things?”
“Of course, you’re right,” Shane paused again, still pondering the situation. “Could you come by my place this afternoon, after the dust settles a bit? And bring whatever information you have about this case.”
“Case? Not really a case, is it?”
“Please humor me, Hardy, my man. I am accustomed to classifying the things that interest me as cases. Things work better for me that way.”
“See you at three.”
Hardy rang off.
Shane immediately called a very old number. Although the number had gone unused for several years, since the unfortunate encounter of Shane’s thoracic spinal cord with an errant slug from a fleeing perp’s handgun, the number was still stored in the list of contacts in Shane’s cell phone. It was early, but worth a try.
“Wall Street,” the still familiar voice of Pat Harmony answered the call.
“Hello, Pat,” Shane replied. “I suspect that your stock of Lincoln College sherry must surely be depleted by now. How about if I drop by after a while with a fresh supply?”
“Son of a bitch,” Harmony said. “Son of a bitch. Am I witnessing the resurrection of Sherlock Shane Hadley? Son-of-a-bitch.”
“That seems to be a distinct possibility, my long-neglected friend,” Shane said. “I’ll drop by your place later on, and we can fill in some very long blanks.”
“Son of a bitch,” Harmony repeated.
When Pat Harmony retired from his long career as a beat cop with the Metro Police Department, he realized a lifelong dream by opening a bar. It was a small place. The entrance was in an alley that ran off Church Street. Because it was sort of near to a financial center and hoping to attract the lawyers, bankers, and their like who haunted that area of town during the daytime and early evening, Harmony named the bar Wall Street. The clientele he actually attracted was mostly cops, ex-cops, and cop wannabees. But Wall Street had done okay, and Pat Harmony was about as happy in his retirement as a cop like him was capable of being.
Before Shane’s accident, when he was a high rolling Metro detective, he adopted Pat Harmony’s bar as a sort of informal work area, his Wall Street office he called it. Shane made regular deliveries of his favorite sherry to the bar, and Pat kept a stash of it hidden away for the private use of the locally famous detective. The arrangement was good for business and Shane found the ambience of the place favorable for pondering the complexities of whatever challenge he was facing at the moment. Back in the day, most afternoons would find Shane sitting at his regular spot at the end of the bar facing a glass of sherry and either chatting with Pat Harmony, discussing a case with one of his colleagues, or peering intently at the notes in the small leather-bound notebook that he used for keeping information about his currently active cases.
A sudden stroke of abysmal luck ended all of that. Shane’s paralysis, his retirement from the force, and his self-imposed isolation severed his connections with the world beyond Printers Alley for a long time. But he felt the strictures relaxing some lately. The renewed friendship with Hardy Seltzer and their collaboration on the Bagley case seemed to crack open some doors that Shane believed his trauma had sealed shut once and for all. And he was a bit more mobile than he had been for a long time. Wall Street was only a couple of blocks from the Alley. He could manage that. And creeping into the margins of his brain was the bare hint of a suspicion that there just might be a plausible excuse for reopening the Wall Street office. He smiled to himself at the possibility.
Shane wheeled himself back inside and over to the bar to check that he had a fresh bottle of sherry to deliver, as promised, to Pat Harmony. As he was retrieving a bottle and setting it on the bar, KiKi wandered into the room, yawning and still in her silk robe. Her hair was disheveled. She looked beautiful to Shane, as always. She went into the kitchen and emerged with a cup of coffee.
“At the sherry a trifle early this morning, aren’t we, Shane?” she said.
She curled up in one of the leather chairs that faced the fireplace, tucked her legs beneath her, and cradled the warm coffee cup in both hands.
“Good morning, my love,” Shane responded.
KiKi noticed that Shane’s laptop was open. She was aware of Shane’s reliance on Wikipedia for information and didn’t think much of the popular website as a source.
“What are you looking for in the large and largely fabricated world of unexamined mass opinion?” she asked.
“Exploring the artistic temperament,” Shane answered. “Maybe perusing an outlier’s back story. You raised the outlier issue and I keep thinking about that.”
“The Fitzwallington guy. Should have known. I sense a case is afoot. Is that it?”
“Actually, what this very morning will no doubt be declared a non-case is what may be afoot, my love. Perhaps just the thing for a non-detective to take on, don’t you think?”
“When it comes to decisions about your choice of activities, my dear,” KiKi responded, “I have long since determined to have no opinion. I have never had the slightest idea why you choose to do what you do, so I don’t waste time thinking about it.”
“You are a wise woman, my love.”
“Not sure about wise, but hopelessly practical,” KiKi said.
She sipped her coffee and stared off into space, obviously operating on early morning autopilot. She was thinking about those other outliers that were trying so desperately to tell her something, deliver a message that she could not yet decipher.
The morning sun painted a bright magenta stripe across the East River on its way to the broad windows of a Sutton Place apartment and through them to illuminate the fair face of a sleeping Blythe Fortune. She had slept fitfully after a disconcerting evening at the Felidia bar with her business partner. She had also overdone the martinis in a valiant and ultimately unsuccessful effort to dull the edge of her anger enough to allow the interaction with Bruce to be civil.
It hadn’t gone well. She came away from the meeting still essentially ignorant of the “info” he had alluded to earlier. Something to do with a connection with Fitzwallington’s daughter in Nashville that he had been working on for a while and which he thought would give Galleria Salinas an inside track with whatever paintings there were that could be sold. Given the intervening events, those paintings should command a premium. Bruce said that there were a good many paintings that should be available to them, although he did not disclose how he knew that or much at all about what these Nashville “arrangements” were and how they had come about.
Blythe often felt uneasy about Bruce’s failure to keep her informed about his doings vis-à-vis the gallery. She didn’t press him too much because they had enjoyed a financially successful partnership that she didn’t want to upset. But he made her uneasy. And sometimes, like last evening, he also made her mad. Bastard!
Hardy Seltzer’s prediction of what Assistant Chief Goetz would say that morning was spot on. Hardy’s phone rang shortly after he ended the conversation with Shane. Hardy wasn’t ready yet to take on his boss mano-a-mano and so he checked the caller ID and did not answer the call. Instead he decided to get dressed and go to work as usual but to go directly to Goetz’s office and address the issue.
The Assistant Chief called Hardy’s cell phone twice more before Hardy could get to his office. This guy just needs to take some deep breaths and try behaving like a sane person for a change, Hardy thought. Anyone in a managerial r
ole in the metro department who was wound too tight was not likely to survive very long; the job would eat him alive. Goetz was one of only a handful of the department hierarchy who had been brought in from the outside by the new chief. Time would tell whether those guys would be able to figure out how to survive. But Hardy had seen bosses come and seen bosses go and however things turned out, he would still be there, doing his job as best he could. He had never had a boss who made his job easier.
“Answer your goddam phone, Seltzer!” the assistant chief greeted Hardy as he walked, unannounced, into the office.
“Yes sir.”
“The Mayor, the director of the arts council, and three councilmen have been on the chief’s back this morning. The guy is raising hell and I can’t get a detective to answer his goddam phone. That’s not acceptable behavior Seltzer. Not acceptable. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Yes sir.”
“Yessir, yesssir. Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
“Yes sir,” Hardy answered again.
He was determined to avoid a shouting match with his boss but couldn’t resist delivering a small prick of the verbal needle.
Goetz got up from behind his desk and strode to the window that overlooked the square. His face was a color somewhere between aubergine and fuchsia and he was obviously hyperventilating.
Hardy was in control.
“I assume, Assistant Chief Goetz,” Hardy said, his voice firm and steady, “that you are still interested in my opinion about the circumstances of Bechman Fitzwallington’s death?”
Goetz wheeled around to face Hardy and started toward him but hesitated and said, “Sarcasm doesn’t work with me Seltzer. You’re going to learn that, apparently, the hard way.”
Hardy ignored the comment.
“Yes sir,” Hardy said, then continued. “The Fitzwallington autopsy, at least the gross part, was completely negative according to the coroner. I don’t see any reason to suspect foul play. I recommend against any criminal investigation. I hope that helps to calm the situation for you”
“Of course it will calm the situation, Seltzer. So why couldn’t you just tell me that on the phone? Why the melodrama?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Hardy answered, “I don’t think I created the melodrama. I just thought that a matter that was obviously so important to so many people deserved a face to face resolution. I am sorry you don’t agree and apologize for my error in judgment.”
“You’re a smartass Seltzer. I don’t like smartasses.”
“Nor do I, sir,” Hardy responded.
Chapter 7
Hardy Seltzer was more than an hour late getting to Printers Alley for the promised rendezvous with Shane Hadley. Seltzer had spent much of the afternoon assembling all the relevant information that he had about the death of Bechman Fitzwallington. He had made several phone calls and taken extensive notes. He also dropped by the coroner’s office and picked up a copy of the autopsy report. He hadn’t looked at it yet.
Although he had been able to get some more specific information about the artist’s contacts, what he had just didn’t add up to anything resembling a coherent narrative of the events that led up to the old man’s death. What he had, Seltzer thought, was a list of facts and observations that bore no clear relationship to each other…no common thread to tug on that would unravel the mystery. If, of course, there was a mystery to be unraveled. If there was, Hardy didn’t see it. It would be interesting if Shane saw something Hardy didn’t. While that would cause Seltzer to feel some disappointment in himself, he would not be completely surprised. He had no illusions about the relative detecting skills of himself and Shane Hadley. He was okay with that.
“Here’s what I have, Shane,” Hardy said. “It’s not much but I haven’t had much time.”
Although it was a nice day, the two men had ignored their usual spot outside on the deck and settled in the living room. Seltzer had spread the contents of a manila folder that he had brought with him on the coffee table. Shane had not offered him a glass of sherry as was his custom when they met in the afternoon nor had he offered a reason for not doing so. Hardy thought that Shane was less animated than usual and maybe looked a little pale around the gills.
Shane shuffled the papers about to no apparent purpose.
“Can you give me a summary of the material and how you put it together?” he asked.
“Sure,” Seltzer replied, “although I’ll have to pass on the putting it together part. I haven’t had much luck with that so far.”
“Okay, just summarize what you have,” Shane sounded a trifle impatient.
“From the daughter I got the names of three local artists of some note who visited Fitzwallington with varying frequency. Daughter wasn’t sure the reason, since all of the three frequent visitors were known professional and probably personal enemies of the old guy.”
“Hmmm,” Shane said, “hmmm. And said daughter has no inkling of reasons for the visits? Wasn’t she curious about that? Was she leveling with you?”
“The curiosity of SalomeMe is bounded by the margins of her ego, I suspect,” Hardy replied. “Leveling with me? I seriously doubt she ever levels with anybody including herself.”
“Yes,” the wheels were starting to turn for Shane. “What else?”
“I talked to the doctor he had seen in the past but that was little help. He said the old guy had some high blood pressure and the doc had prescribed medication for that, but that he appeared to be going downhill for reasons that had gone unexplored since the patient refused the necessary tests. As far as this doc knew, Fitzwallington had had no medical attention in a long time.”
“I see,” said Shane. “Any other information about visitors, activity at his home, other associations?”
“The young man who lives next door and who discovered the body did say that he had seen a couple of new people visit the house recently. Thought one of them must be from out-of-town although he didn’t say why he thought that. The other one lives in the neighborhood but was not, to this kid’s knowledge, friendly with the artist. Maybe something to follow up there, not sure.”
“Tell me more about the regular visitors.”
“Well,” Hardy answered. “Apparently there were three locally successful artists who came by with some regularity—a painter, a sculptor, and a ceramicist or whatever you call somebody who does ceramics. Not clear what business they had with the old guy but they seem to come around fairly often. SalomeMe gave me some contact information for them but she says they were never her father’s friends. Of course, she thinks her father was incapable of friendship with anybody. ‘A real shit’ was her short description of her father’s personality.”
“So, we’ve got some starting places.”
“Starting places?” Hardy queried. “I guess I considered this a stopping place. That’s sure how my bosses see it.”
“That may very well depend on one’s vantage point, I suppose.”
Hardy was a practical man. He was clearly hands-off anything more to do with Bechman Warren Fitzwallington, nee Billy Wayne Farmer. That much was a definite message from his department. He was troubled by the tone of Shane’s comment. What the hell was Shane suggesting? Was he thinking of going at this solo? Surely not. Given his physical limitations, how would he go about that? Those were questions Hardy really didn’t want to know the answers to. He had no business knowing anything about any potential solo efforts on Shane’s part, much less participating in any off-the-record investigative stuff. So, Hardy didn’t ask Shane anything more about whatever he intended to convey by his suggestive comment. No sir! And Shane did not elaborate.
“This stuff is all copies of the originals,” Hardy said, gesturing toward the material splayed across the coffee table. “I’ll leave it all with you. Of course, you will protect your source if it comes to that. Look, Shane,” Hardy walked toward the windows at the front of the apartment and stared out at a flashing neon sign across the alley, “I’m not s
ure what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to know. My only request, and I can’t be too clear about this. Whatever you have in mind, deal me out. I obviously care a lot about solving murder cases, you know that, but my realities are different than yours. If this is a murder, and I repeat that I see no evidence for that, it will not be solved by me. I want no part of it.”
A philosophical response to his friend’s declaration formed in Shane’s mind. He started to speak, and then caught himself. There was a long pause as the two men looked at each other.
“So be it, my man,” Shane said, reaching up and clapping Hardy on the back. “So be it.”
The relentless exhortations of the sleek-headed and remarkably buff physical therapist, Mike Borden—push it Shane; harder, harder; of course it hurts, ignore the pain—had significantly improved Shane Hadley’s physical strength and thus his ability to navigate in the larger world that surrounded his Printers Alley refuge. Those Monday morning sessions with Borden were pure agony, but Shane could feel results. That and KiKi’s insistence on the potential value of the therapy kept him doing it. He did not look forward to the ritual flagellation by Borden, a helluva a way to start the week, he thought. But he was stronger.
Those were Shane’s thoughts as he wheeled himself with minimal effort up the Church Street hill toward the alley behind the bank where sat the Wall Street bar. An unopened bottle of Lincoln College Sherry was nestled in his lap. The afternoon was sunny and warm, and Shane was looking forward to renewing his Wall Street connection and getting reacquainted with the bar’s proprietor, his old friend, Pat Harmony. If he was honest with himself, Shane would also have to admit he felt some exhilaration at the prospect of investigating the murder of a notable Nashvillian. Of course, Hardy couldn’t get involved; he was essentially prohibited from that by his superiors and by the politics. But as his friend had said, the two of them had separate realities. And the more he thought about this case, the more certain he was that something was awry. Too many unexplanations. Something might be, indeed, afoot.