Nihilistic? I said, “Who am I to say what someone should feel?”
“Good answer.”
His clipped manner of speech was peculiar. “Do you mind telling me what you thought of Kate McCall as a person?”
“Never met her. Didn’t know she existed until the arrest.”
I stopped. Phillip continued a few feet then stopped and looked back. I said, “You didn’t know your mother had a personal assistant?”
“The format of her day-to-day life was not discussed.”
We resumed walking. I remembered Kate McCall’s excuse for keeping jewelry from Jackie Whitney’s safe-deposit box. I said, “Did you know anything about jewelry in a safe-deposit box that Kate was supposed to give you?”
“Mom had jewelry. No idea where.”
“What did you and your mother typically talk about when you got together?”
“How I was doing, did I have a girlfriend, what I did for fun, if I liked my job.”
“Did your mom tell you about her personal life? What kind of a social life she led?”
We came to a four-way stop. Phillip adjusted Bo’s collar then told him to sit. We watched several other volunteers and their dogs walk past in the opposite direction. Phillip said, “Cursory accounts of activities. Who she accompanied to a party, the opera, the fundraiser. She’d admit only to friendship.”
“Speaking of friends, others have suggested your mom had high expectations of her friends. Especially those she gave money to.”
“Mom knew best and wasn’t afraid to say so.”
“Kate McCall had become very important in her life. Why do you think she didn’t tell you about her?”
Phillip stopped in front of the door to the shelter. I sensed he didn’t want me to follow him inside. “Can’t say. Probably thought Kate had no relevance to me.”
I gave him one of my cards. “Listen,” I said. “I hope you’ll give me a call if you think of something that might be important. You never know about these things.”
Phillip gave me a thoughtful expression and nodded.
Chapter 11
Maybe it was a change in atmospheric pressure, but from the downstairs lobby I always perceived when someone was waiting outside my office. Today was no different. When I reached the third floor, Linda Napier sat in one of two club chairs I’d put on the landing to serve as my waiting area.
“Why didn’t you call and set up an appointment?” I said.
“I was afraid you’d hang up on me. My behavior was abominable.” She looked closely at the scab above my brow. “I’m so sorry.”
I unlocked the door then picked the mail up off the floor. Linda didn’t wait to be invited in. By the time I sat, she was seated in front of my desk.
“So what can I do for you?” I said.
“The murderer. If it wasn’t Kate McCall, who? Why?”
“I don’t know, and money.”
“I’m just confused. I—I don’t understand who it could’ve been if not Kate McCall.”
“Worried about something?”
“I’m not worried, just confused. Why would I be worried?”
“Hey, catch me up on something. When did you and Dr. Kessler start dating?”
Linda abruptly stood then walked to the room’s only window. She spoke while looking out over busy North Avenue. “I decided to surprise Jackie by showing up at her place to wish her a good trip. I wanted to be on speaking terms again before she left. But I was too late. Josh—Dr. Kessler—invited me in for coffee. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t tell you this yesterday.”
“Probably.”
Linda turned around and walked back to the chair. “Anyway, it’s over.”
“When did the relationship end?”
“I don’t know. It changed. We’re still friends.”
“Were you seeing Dr. Kessler when he supposedly wasn’t paying his rent?”
“He paid every dime! That trashy bitch was keeping the money.”
“Did you tell your friend George about your relationship with Kessler?”
“No.”
“Why not? Weren’t you close?”
“Very close. But things had changed. I had been away for some time, and I thought it better to keep my intimate life private.”
I still wondered what she was doing in my office. “There was a time when you were more forthcoming with George about your personal life.”
“I see you’ve been discussing me with him.”
“It’s just odd to me that you would keep secrets from your oldest and closest friend.”
“How is that any of your business?”
“I’m a private investigator. When people appear to be hiding something—anything—it’s my job to become suspicious.”
Linda shifted in her seat. “It would’ve been too easy for me to become dependent on Jackie and George to tell me what to do about men. Or about anything. I had to make up my own mind and not look for their approval first.”
“You think Kessler had any reason to kill Jackie?”
Linda flinched. “No! Of course not. Why would he?”
“Did you help him move out?”
“A little. So what?”
“Was it done all in one day?”
“Yes. Well—no, because I started moving smaller things a week or more before he was completely out.”
“Were you with him when he finished packing up and left the key with the doorman? What day was it?”
“Um,” Linda said, then reflected long and hard on my question. She either knew what I was getting at or was replaying the events in her head. “I think I was with him—I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
I stood. “Anything else?”
Linda remained seated. “I thought maybe you’d let me buy you dinner, as a way of apologizing for my behavior yesterday.”
I hadn’t seen that coming. “That’s not necessary,” I said. “I forgive you. But feel free to get in touch again—should you feel the need.”
—
At one o’clock, it had already been a long day. I needed a nap. Instead of going home, I locked the office door, adjusted my ergonomic high-back chair, and luxuriated in the pressure releasing from my lower spine and thighs. The ensuing dreaminess involved Dr. Kessler’s possible guilt and Linda Napier’s role, if any. The CCTV video of May 16 and 17 would determine the direction of my investigation.
My phone rang about two-thirty, rousing me into a dopey kind of wakefulness.
“Did I wake you?” Kalijero said.
“Huh? No. What’s up?”
“Brookstone. He’s working for a lawyer named Henry DeWeldt.”
I needed a moment. Then it came back. “A lawyer? What kind of lawyer?”
“I don’t know. Supposedly he’s pretty rooted into our city government.”
“A big payroll to meet, I bet. How did you find out about Brookie?”
“Cops who beat up women have big mouths. They can’t help themselves. Like the drug dealer bragging about a big score. Only Brookstone was bragging about the easy money this lawyer was paying him just to act tough. Dumbass started dropping his name.”
“What’s Henry DeWeldt’s connection to Jackie Whitney’s murder?”
“That’s your job, Mr. Private Investigator. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Anyway, thanks for the tip.”
“Hang on. You need to expect Brookstone to keep finding you. He’s got a whole network of cops he kicks back to when he’s working a side job. As you keep digging, he’s going to want to know what you know.”
“I’m working for the other side. Fuck him.”
“Don’t be an ass. We both know you’re not gonna be satisfied playing the reasonable doubt game. You’ll need him if you find real evidence against someone else.” Kalijero hung up.
I splashed cold water on my face, made a peanut butter sandwich, then drove back to Michigan Avenue. By some miracle, I found a legal parking place on East Lake Shore Drive. Manny walked out
the front door just as I stepped out of my car. From the trunk of a taxi, he lifted two very large suitcases then took one in each hand—luggage cart be damned. Since Marv was not present, I held the door open and followed Manny all the way to the desk where a luggage cart waited. I barely kept pace. Also waiting was a young man in a doorman’s uniform.
“Thanks for getting the door, Mr. Landau,” Manny said.
“So that’s how you keep so fit and trim,” I said. “Power walking with a suitcase in each hand is like a whole-body workout. You don’t need no stinkin’ luggage cart.”
“Manny’s a salsa athlete,” the young man said. “You should see him hoofin’ on the dance floor.”
Manny laughed. “Meet Lenny, Mr. Landau. We’re just about to change shifts.”
I looked at my watch. “The swing-shift man. You like those hours?”
Lenny shrugged. “It beats graveyard or being a floater who never knows when they’re going to work.”
“Mr. Landau is a private investigator,” Manny said. “The real deal. I bet you’ve never met a private investigator.”
Lenny didn’t share Manny’s fascination. “Actually, I have. He told me it’s really boring work.”
“Do you mind if we chat a little bit?” I said to Lenny. “I promise not to be boring.”
Lenny stepped back, gave me an incredulous look, and said, “It’s about time!” His reaction confused me.
Manny put his hand on Lenny’s shoulder. “Well, have a good night, sonny boy,” he said.
“Before you leave,” I said, “I got a question.”
Manny stepped a few feet away from the desk. “What’s up?”
“Can I have a peek at the guest sign-in book you mentioned?”
“I guess so. Why, may I ask?”
“Just the pages that cover May sixteenth and seventeenth.”
Manny hesitated. “When Jackie was supposedly—”
I nodded.
“Wait here,” Manny said, walked back to the desk, then said something to Lenny, who handed him a book from under the counter. “Here you go. Take a look.”
The possibility of a person signing in to kill somebody should not be overlooked. Stupidity was the downfall of many a murderer. The book was a common daily journal with lined pages. I looked through the last names of visitors from the morning of the sixteenth to the evening of the seventeenth, but did not see Kessler’s name. “Thank you, sir,” I said to Manny, handing him the book. After Manny handed it back to Lenny I tried to slip a ten-dollar bill into his pocket but he refused.
“No, no, no,” he said. “That’s completely unnecessary.”
Once again, I bowed to the man in the officer’s cap then turned back to Lenny. “What did you mean a minute ago when you said, ‘It’s about time’?”
“Well, from what I’ve read, I might’ve been one of the last people to see Jackie Whitney alive.”
“Is that a confession?”
“Not funny.”
“Did you know her at all? Did she talk to you much?”
“Did I know her in what sense?”
“What was her mood like? Her attitude if she spoke to you?”
“Witchy.”
“Was she always witchy to you?”
Lenny thought about it. “Well, at least always crabby to some degree.”
“Does it bother you when people are nasty?”
“Nothing bothers me here.”
“Do you know the concierge, Freddie, very well?”
Lenny began to smile then pursed his lips. “He’s an interesting guy,” Lenny said.
“Funny. Manny also used the word ‘interesting.’ Why do you think that is?” I watched Lenny struggle to think of something to say that didn’t sound insulting or politically incorrect. I decided to help him out. “I get it,” I said. “He’s a transman. Big deal. But is he a nice guy? Friendly? I heard he and Jackie Whitney were friends. Did you see them together?”
“She used to hang around at the concierge desk. They giggled a lot. Sometimes, she would sit behind the desk and they would talk really intensely, you know what I mean? Like eyeball to eyeball.”
“This was only as Freddie…?”
“I didn’t work here when he was Felicia. So I don’t know if they acted weird then.”
“Weird? You think the eyeball-to-eyeball talking was really that weird?”
“Not only that. I mean, it just seemed weird how Jackie Whitney acted around him. Maybe a little too comfy? But that’s just me. What do I know?”
“You’re wondering how intimate they really were?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s it. But I’m not saying they were intimate. I don’t know anything for real. Although sometimes Freddie would leave his desk to help her carry packages up. That’s my job.”
“To her apartment?”
“Where else? Maybe he just dropped them at the door? I don’t know. He’d spend fifteen or twenty minutes up there. Where else would he be all that time?” A limo driver stood in the lobby waving at Lenny. “Gotta go,” he said then ran off pushing a luggage cart.
I headed toward the concierge desk. Through the front windows, I could see Lenny pulling suitcases out of the limo’s trunk. I said to Freddie, “Why do you think the building doesn’t have a full-time doorman stationed at the actual door?”
“Because the concierge is supposed to help unload luggage. But I don’t help unless a couple of cars pull up. Screw it. They don’t pay me for two jobs; why should I work two jobs? Manny and the guys don’t seem to care. More tips for them.”
A man and a woman in their sixties approached the desk accompanied by a younger man looking dapper in a fine suit. I stepped back and watched Freddie graciously provide sightseeing pamphlets, draw circles on areas of small maps, and write down detailed directions to a specific location. Parents sightseeing while their successful son went to work, I imagined.
When they walked away I said, “What if a resident comes back with lots of packages?”
Freddie hesitated. “That’s the doorman’s job.”
“So you never lend a hand with something like that?”
“I’m not supposed to. During the day, the concierge desk should always be manned.”
I nodded, as if it made perfect sense, then excused myself and walked back to the doorman’s desk.
“Did you have a nice chat with Felicia—I mean Freddie?” Lenny said.
“You mind if I pay a visit to the ninth floor?” I said.
“For what?”
“I just want to chat with the neighbor who took care of Jackie Whitney’s dog after her renter moved out early.”
“I might catch some shit for it, but I’ll just say I thought you were a cop.”
Unlike Jackie Whitney’s palace on the tenth floor, on the ninth the elevator opened to a common hallway servicing three apartments. As luck would have it, I thought I heard something resembling a dog’s high-pitched bark coming from behind the middle door. I knocked, which left no doubt as to where the dog lived. An older, female voice exclaimed several shushes before the door opened and a kind, elderly face appeared behind a chain lock.
“Yes?” she said, sounding surprisingly pleasant considering a stranger stood at her door in a building with a doorman.
“I’m very sorry to bother you,” I said then explained why I was there.
“I already told the police I didn’t hear anything,” she said.
“Do you recall on what day Dr. Kessler brought Trixie down to you?”
“Oh, heavens. The middle of last month sometime.”
“That must’ve been quite a surprise to see a man standing here with a dog.”
“She seemed quite comfortable at his side. I could tell he felt guilty about handing her over. I told him he was lucky that he knocked on my door. My neighbors don’t like seeing animals in the building. They complain about noise and such.”
“Did you hear a lot of noise from Jackie Whitney’s apartment?”
The lady unh
ooked the door and stepped into the doorway. Behind her I could see a standard poodle wagging its tail.
“Oh, once in a while Trixie would bark a little bit. My neighbors are just old, that’s all. Always looking for something to complain about.”
“Did Jackie come down to get Trixie when she returned on the afternoon of the sixteenth?”
“Yes, but we weren’t here. I often spend the weekends with my son and his family. They live in the suburbs. My granddaughters love Trixie. On Sunday I returned to see that Jackie had taped a note to my door. I brought Trixie up Monday morning, but nobody answered. When I tried again on Tuesday, there were police everywhere and I found out what happened.”
“Did you know Jackie Whitney very well?”
“I remember the parents but the kids keep to themselves once they grow up.” She described how the character of the building had changed over the decades as the old money passed down to the younger generations. “When I was a young woman, many in the building would organize progressive dinner parties where each floor would open their doors and serve different foods. Truly amazing, now that I think about it. Imagine, all twenty floors open to any resident who felt like stopping by. Unthinkable nowadays.”
I thanked her for her time then hung around the lobby trying to get someone to talk about Jackie Whitney. Among the dozen or so residents that gave me the time of day, most remembered her, but none claimed her as a friend or admitted to any relationship beyond that of an acquaintance.
—
Punim paced and whipped her tail. I had been gone all day. She was not happy. I dropped a liver and two hearts into her bowl and she tore into them, shredding the organs into chunks small enough to swallow. A real piranha-puss. I knew all would be forgiven.
I made a three-veggie-patty sandwich then fired up my laptop. Kalijero’s somewhat conciliatory tone regarding Brookstone troubled me. Cops and ex-cops, I thought. God help us. For the first time, I wondered if I could completely trust Kalijero. Henry DeWeldt was a principal partner in the law firm DeWeldt, Van Buren & Associates, P.C. His photo spoke loudly of the sober corporate lawyer never happier than when sitting in front of an opened book of intellectual property law. He sat on various boards of directors, including Furry BFF. Why would he be associated with a semiliterate ape like Tommy Brookstone?
Doubt in the 2nd Degree Page 9