“So, blinded by their hopes, people overlook this?”
“Exactly,” said Gross. “There’s a similar scam for songwriters. You send in lyrics. They write back what great potential you have. The wannabe likes to believe he has potential, of course, or he wouldn’t be writing songs. The company offers to make a demo record to send to all the famous singers. This costs you plenty. They mail it to a hundred people, all recognizable celebrities from Trisha Yearwood to Ice-T. Guess what? The singers throw the demos in the trash with the rest of the junk mail. It’s all the same: there is no way that any of this gets you into the business.”
“But it’s deceptive,” said Southerlyn.
“Of course it is,” said Branch, “so are most herbal diet plans, but it doesn’t necessarily make them criminal.”
“Guaranteed way to kill roaches,” said Van Buren.
Everyone looked at her. “You never heard of this?
There was a guy in the nineteen forties or sometime who sold a guaranteed way to kill roaches. You sent in a dollar and he mailed you two blocks of wood with directions to smash the roaches in between them.
His defense was his ad was literally true. Like the McDonalds’ contract.”
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“But the post office department shut him down, didn’t they?” asked Serena. “Mail fraud?”
McCoy interrupted. “This isn’t really the point, is it?”
“You’re right,” said Branch. “The death is.”
“The question is,” McCoy continued, “was Barbara Chesko murdered? And if she was, who did it? It sounds to me the most likely person is Rosserman.
Ralph Chesko has nothing to gain, unless she knew about something illegal in his business. Nobody seems to think she did. The McDonalds have no motive,”
McCoy continued. “Chesko’s no threat. The McDonalds evidently survived a number of fraud complaints and will survive many more.”
“Survived and prospered!” said Gross.
“Really?” asked McCoy. “That many people are writing books?” McCoy was amused. Southerlyn looked at him coldly.
“That many people are paying for their editorial services. God knows how many are writing who don’t hire them,” said Gross. “We talked to one of their editors once. She was a smart kid. She argued with Avery McDonald and tried to get unemployment. She claimed they were making up to ten thou a week.”
“That much?” said McCoy.
“But the kid couldn’t tell us anything we could take to court,” said Gross. “She was the classic disgruntled employee. IRS audited them and they found nothing but a couple of unreceipted deductions. The McDonalds were sloppy at sending out 1099s, but that just made the IRS go after the people who got paid.”
“But, unless you can find a way Barbara Chesko could have hurt them, they have no reason to kill her,”
said McCoy.
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“So what is our action, people?” said Branch.
“We need more evidence against Rosserman,” said McCoy.
“The DNA should do it,” said Briscoe.
“And that would prove what?” said Branch. “That he had sex with her. Where is the evidence she was pushed?”
“If we can prove he made up the suicide note?” said Green.
“Rosserman turned in the suicide note himself,”
said Briscoe, “which could have been a way to get himself off the hook, but it would have been just as easy to do nothing, as his attorney pointed out.
There’s a shredder in his office.”
“A lot of guilty people go over the line trying to prove their innocence. They think they can fool us,”
said McCoy. “Maybe the M.E. could find us something?”
Briscoe shrugged. “We’ll ask, but…”
“Look, people,” said Branch, “in the final analysis we’re hardly any farther along than when the detectives showed up at the scene. Get the DNA results for Rosserman and maybe he will tearfully confess and save us a lot more trouble. We know he’s a liar. But it seems to me you can’t go anywhere with homicide unless he breaks down. It’s far too circumstantial.”
“We should at least make him suffer for playing three-card monte with us,” said Briscoe, stretching and rising.
Southerlyn reached out for Gross’s arm. “I’ll want to see the files on Redux.”
“Say when,” said Gross. “I’ve got a file five years thick.”
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drifted out. “Cleveland Sharpe copped a plea,” he told Branch, “and the Supreme Court refused to hear Martin Brunley’s appeal.”
“That is good,” said Branch. “maybe the liberal press of New York City will lay off me for an hour.”
“What was this meeting really about?” asked McCoy, glancing back at the doorway. “That bit of nonsense in the Daily News?”
Branch seemed, as was usual with him, to be carefully composing his response. “On one side, they say he absconded with the union’s pension fund. On the other side, he’s an innocent victim of the markets.”
He paused. “Ralph Chesko has been a big donor in the past, to a number of campaigns.”
“To you?”
“To a lot of people,” he answered.
“I thought he was broke now.”
“Just about, as far as anyone knows, but the party doesn’t just toss supporters over.”
“Who will return his calls when they’re sure he’s really broke?” said McCoy.
“Don’t be totally cynical, Jack. Certain important persons are sincere about helping him. Just because Chesko donated doesn’t mean he, ah, wasn’t friends with important people.”
“So Chesko is upset about the news article?”
“Less that, I think, than the fact that the McDonalds relieved his ex-wife of eighteen thousand dollars of the support money he sent. I really don’t think that would bother him if he had a million or two stashed in an Isle of Jersey bank.”
“Her murder doesn’t bother him? Just the support money?”
“At the least, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be accused 138
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of it. Maybe he feels guilty about divorcing her. Talk to him yourself,” said Branch. “Horse’s mouth and all that. Assure him we’re doing everything we can.”
“Political hand-holding isn’t my business,” McCoy said.
“Who are you kidding, Jack?” said Branch. “This is America. Hell, this is the universe! Politics is everybody’s business. For good and ill.” He paused again. “All right, Jack, I’ll call him myself. But keep a close watch on this case.”
“We’ll build the case against Rosserman,” said McCoy. “If we can.”
139
TEDDY’S TUMBLER
251 WEST 54TH STREET
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5
When the detectives delivered the DNA order to John Ellis, he had shrugged and said he had talked to his client thirty minutes before. “He would have changed his mind by this afternoon,” said Ellis. “He was offended, that’s all.”
“Well, now, he doesn’t have to change his mind,”
said Briscoe, dropping the order on Ellis’ desk.
Afterward, they canvassed the Waterloo Hotel and surrounding neighborhood again, just in case somebody had seen Barbara Chesko with a man.
It was a long, frustrating afternoon. They tried every employee they could find at the Waterloo. Bellhops, clerks, maintenance people, maids, the wait staff in the coffee shop. There was also a high-class Greek restaurant in the hotel, but no one there remembered Rosserman. They then moved on to nearby businesses. Some people remembered talking to the detectives when the body was discovered. None of them could identify the picture of Bob Rosserman. Many would try to avoid looking at it, out of fear of becoming involved. If you urged them to take another look, they were usually relieved to be able to say they didn’t recog
nize him. Others of them would say they thought 140
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he might be familiar, though they didn’t know why.
People who wished they could be helpful often said that. They always wanted to know why you were asking, hoping they were participants in something they would later see on the news.
Briscoe and Green slid onto bar stools. The bartender, a narrow-hipped man with massive shoulders, stood at the far end of the bar, wiping out the cylinder of a blender and talking to a bulldog of a woman delivering cases of bottled beer.
“You know how in old movies they say, ‘My dogs are barking’?” said Briscoe loosening his shoes. “Mine have died and are howling in doggy hell.”
Green couldn’t help smiling. “Doggy hell?” He shook his head. “The way you turn a phrase, you ought to write a book.”
Briscoe gave him a “drop dead” look.
“Hey,” said the bartender, “New York’s finest!”
“Is it that obvious?” said Green.
He gestured toward Briscoe. “You were a regular.”
Briscoe squinted and looked around. “You’re right,”
he said. “The memories are coming back and they aren’t pleasant. I guess the evil side of my subcon-scious drew me back.”
“And if I remember correctly, you did have an evil side.”
“Sorry. Get me a club soda,” said Briscoe. “Lots of ice. Do I remember this place being busier?”
“It’s always quiet after Labor Day weekend,” said the bartender.
Briscoe laid pictures of Barbara Chesko and Bob Rosserman on the bar. “You ever seen either of these two?”
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closely at it. “No. Don’t think so. They come in together?”
“We’re not sure.”
“I recognize the guy,” he said. “He’s been in here.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A week, two weeks ago.”
Briscoe straightened up as if his feet no longer hurt.
“He had an argument with a guy in the booth over there. They were hunched down together, eyebrow to eyebrow. This guy here”—he tapped the picture—“was really worked up, just barely holding himself together, but he kept his voice down.”
“Can you remember when this was?”
“Wednesday. My wife’s birthday. I bought her some cannoli and had to exchange them.”
“What?” said Briscoe. “They weren’t the right size?”
“Cockroach in the filling.” He rolled his eyes. “It was sticking out like a hood ornament. My wife woulda freaked.”
“Yummy,” said Briscoe. “Do you remember what time these two guys argued?”
“Sometime after six and before eleven. I do noon to three, then pick up my daughter from school. Her mom gets home at five-thirty and I come back.”
“Can you pin it down better?”
“Let me think.” He filled a tumbler with club soda.
“Later. I think. I don’t know. Was it Wednesday?”
he asked himself.
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“I think so. I think it was just after I came in. Like six-thirty or seven. I was steamed about the bug and I saw them over there and hoped they wouldn’t get into a knockdown, because I was in a pretty bad 142
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mood. I wasn’t about to dig the nasty thing out. I mean, where there’s one there’s usually two.”
“Where there’s two there’s a million.” Briscoe thirstily gulped a mouthful of the club soda and wiped his chin.
“I was afraid the littler guy’d whack him with his cane.”
Briscoe set down the glass and gave Green a look.
“A cane?”
“Nothing spectacular. It had like a doorknob on the end.”
“Could you identify these men if you saw them again?” asked Green.
The bartender thought. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. “The one guy had curly hair, the other…ahhh. It was the guy with the curly hair who got animated. He came to the bar. I didn’t get a close look at the other one. The small guy.”
“Small?”
“He looked small in the booth.”
Briscoe rolled his eyes.
“Hey, I’m trying to help,” said the bartender. He snapped his fingers. “A goat!”
“Goat?” asked Briscoe.
The bartender touched his chin. “A goat!”
“And a cane,” said Green.
Briscoe and Green nodded. Briscoe jumped to his feet and pulled out his wallet. “Police money is no good with me,” said the bartender.
“But it really hit the spot,” said Briscoe, throwing two dollars on the bar. “Buy your wife a roach-free cannoli.”
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468 RINGGOLD STREET
PEEKSKILL, NEW YORK
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 7:43 P.M.
The woman who opened the door of the huge Victorian house had John Lennon glasses and the stocky figure of a woman who was more muscle than fat. Her hair was parted down the middle, as straight as if she ironed it. She was wearing a worn Army shirt, stone-washed jeans, and sandals.
“Is this the McDonald residence?” asked Briscoe.
“Who wants to know?”
He raised his badge. “Are you Mrs. McDonald?”
“I’m Monica McDonald, if that’s what you mean.
What’s up?”
“Is Mr. McDonald in?”
“And what is this in reference to?”
“It’s in reference to seeing Mr. McDonald,” snapped Green.
“Will this take long? We’re going to drive to our place in Maine and he’s taking a shower. If you’ve got papers to serve…”
“Mr. McDonald knows us,” said Briscoe. “We called him on his cell. He said he’d be here.”
“He didn’t say anything about it, just that he wasn’t in a hurry to drive to Maine. He likes driving in the dark.”
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“Can we come in?”
“Is that necessary?”
“Is all this dancing necessary?” said Green. She said nothing, but backed away from the door. At first Briscoe thought he smelled pot, but then recognized it as a sweet incense.
There was little furniture in the room, but a dozen overstuffed Madras pillows composed a sitting circle around a low circular table. It was the kind of arrangement in which you’d expect to see a hookah in the center. Instead was a carton of manuscripts, an ash-tray, and a coffee mug with a mandala on it.
“You work in here?” asked Briscoe, pointing to the carton of manuscripts.
“One of our editors dropped those off this afternoon,” said McDonald. “Now what is this about?”
“One of the editors who gets a finder’s fee?” asked Green.
“No,” she said, “it’s one of the editors that works for us.”
“You don’t handle the editing yourselves?”
“The workload can get heavy. We hire freelancers on occasion,” she said sharply. “As you know.”
“We didn’t know,” said Briscoe.
“So it’s not about taxes,” she said. “So why are you here?”
“Taxes?” asked Briscoe. “You expecting a visit from the tax man?”
“One of our editors tried to make us pay comp. It was harassment. He wanted a raise and we wouldn’t give him one. Our editors are freelancers. The complaint was thrown out.”
“That surprises me,” said Briscoe. “They usually 145
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find some excuse to gouge you, don’t they? Is business good? How many editors you got?”
“A few,” she said. “But they don’t work here.”
“They’re freelancers,” said Green.
“Yes.”
“Gentlemen!” Avery McDonald appeared at the top of the stairs, combing his hair. He was wearing denim from neck to ankles, and red sneakers. “I
suppose you and Monica have met?” He threw an arm around her shoulder and squeezed her.
“Mrs. McDonald was telling us about your editors.”
The cheerfulness in his voice disappeared, as if he wondered what she had said. “We screen them carefully even though we can only pay them a dollar a page. They’re good, serious workers.”
“Takes a lot of pages to buy a house like this,” said Briscoe.
“And you have a place in Maine, too?” asked Green.
“Nice.”
“We have money from our own writings,” said Avery.
“Along with your up-front fees,” said Green, “you picked up, what was it? Nearly nineteen thousand from Barbara Chesko’s manuscript.”
“I edited that one personally,” said McDonald firmly. “I devoted two entire weekends to it. Didn’t I?” Mrs. McDonald nodded. “I’ll have to admit it was very frustrating.”
“Avery came home in a very bad mood,” said Monica, her eyes narrowing. “Very tired.”
“Barbara had her own notions about what she should do. Many questionable things.” He flicked his hand upward, dismissing the remark. “But that’s the 146
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prerogative of any artist.” His eyebrow rose on the word “artist.”
“It’s terrible she killed herself,” said Monica.
“Publishing can be very frustrating,” said Avery.
“Now, if you don’t mind, we’re planning a breakaway until next Tuesday.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” said Briscoe. “Could we speak with you for just a moment?”
McDonald squeezed his wife again. “We have no secrets.”
“What did you talk about with Robert Rosserman on the night Barbara Chesko died?”
McDonald blinked. “On the night she died?”
“Wednesday, the twenty-first of August,” said Green.
“I don’t remember speaking with Bob at all that day or evening. Let me think.” He knit his brows.
“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t go into town that day and I don’t recall a telephone conversation.”
“The twenty-first?” said Monica. “We were working.”
“You didn’t meet Rosserman in a bar at Fifty-fourth Street?”
“No,” said McDonald.
“He was here all day,” said Monica. “We had a deadline.”
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