Her voice didn’t change as she recalled the sight of a man’s demolished face.
“I assume there is another way to turn out the lights.”
“Yes. There is another switch in the alcove.”
“Why did you pick up the gun? Why not just run?”
“I was afraid. I was familiar with the gun. I felt safer doing something. So, I shot.”
“But you missed.”
“I didn’t say I can shoot particularly well in the dark. Who can? It was more a reflex.”
“Why didn’t you run away immediately?”
“I guess I froze. What do most people do in that situation?”
“It varies,” I said, remembering many such situations in which freezing was the absolute best thing to do.
I looked over at Steve Long. He caught the hint.
“Excuse me, Elizabeth. This coffee is getting to me. Must be my tenth cup of the day. I have to use the facilities.”
“You know where they are, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
He left. That took some of the pressure off, sandwich-wise. I grabbed one.
“You went there to confront Denton?”
She looked at me. She’d seen through the bathroom ploy. She didn’t care.
“Yes. He was throwing me over.”
“For another woman.”
“So he said. With John you never knew.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Any ideas?”
“John wasn’t monogamous. He had a lot of women. I never paid attention.”
“Were you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Angry enough to kill him?”
Elizabeth Olsen smiled.
“No. I wanted to cut his balls off, but I’m not a killer.”
“Heartbroken?’
“More like sex broken.”
“Excuse me.”
“I like to fuck. My father thinks I’m a nymphomaniac.”
“I’m not sure they use that term any more.”
“How about slut?”
“Are you trying to shock me, Elizabeth?”
She laughed.
“I doubt if I could. I’ve heard about you. I just want you to know that my interest in John was purely physical.”
“But you still didn’t like being dumped.”
“Who does?”
“You said he ‘claimed’ he had a bad back. Did he or not?”
“Is that important?”
“I don’t know what’s important. I just wondered why you were skeptical.”
She crossed her legs and rubbed the area around her ankle monitor.
“This damn thing chaffs. Anyway, John liked me on top. Said it was easier on his back. But I think he was full of shit. He played golf and tennis. I just think he wanted to be serviced by women that way. I read somewhere that JFK used the same excuse. Although he really did have a bad back, didn’t he? To tell you the truth, I didn’t mind. I prefer being on top. It’s easier for me to come. Actually, John liked to do it in the chair where he was shot. It’s a classic Eames leather lounger. A bit awkward, but I managed.”
Elizabeth Olsen reached into a leather box on the table in front of her and brought out a pack of cigarettes.
“Do you mind?”
“It’s your house.”
“It’s my father’s. I have a condo in St. George. Daddy hates me smoking inside, and I do most of it outside, but what the hell.”
She lit up and took a long drag, blowing the smoke away from me.
“You know, I had almost quit smoking when this all happened.”
“Did you tell the police what you told me? I mean about your sex life. Your lawyer?”
“I told Steve. He told me to keep my mouth shut to the cops. I don’t think he believes it will win me many points with a jury. But it will probably get out, especially if I testify.” She looked at the door. “I wonder where he is. I hope he really didn’t need to take a piss. If he did, he should see a urologist. In the future, if you want to talk to me alone, we can arrange it. Just call my cell.”
She reached in her pocket and handed me a card.
“You’re an interior decorator?”
“Yes, and a good one. That’s how I met John. I did his house. The Eames chair doesn’t really go well with the other furniture in the den, but he brought it with him and insisted on keeping it. That and the stupid bear trophy above the fireplace. Who the hell puts those out anymore. But he was adamant. I think it might have been one of the things his wife let him keep. She was probably happy to get rid of it. She must not have known about the chair. Worth a pretty penny. Dates from the mid-1950’s. At least it was leather. The new Eames knockoffs are plastic. Screwing in one of those would have been uncomfortable.”
CHAPTER 10 – RHETORICAL LUNCH
“She’s a piece of work,” Long said as we stood by his car outside the Olsen house. “I’ve known her since her teens. Always been a wild one. What did you think of her story?”
I thought about my last case.
“I’ve learned not to make assumptions, especially about good-looking women.”
“What’s your next step?”
“I want to talk to her father. I’ll dig into her background and that of Denton’s. I want to see where he was killed. I’ll want to read everything the cops and Sullivan have given you.”
“I’ll have copies made and get them to you.”
We could hear childish summertime shouts and squeals from the pool behind the main clubhouse across the common grounds.
“What about Denton’s family? How do I get in touch with them?”
“There’s a former wife, no kids, back in Missouri. That’s where he’s from.”
“Cops talk to her?”
“Just to notify her. She was barely interested. Remarried, with kids. Hadn’t seen him in years and happy about it. I’ll get you her phone number, but I don’t think there is anything there.”
“What happens to the house?”
“Couple of uncles somewhere. The estate is a mess. Ironically, Konrad Olsen was his real estate broker. Helped him find the house when he moved up here.”
“And Elizabeth helped him decorate.”
“Yeah. I think both business relationships have soured somewhat,” Long said, chuckling.
“You’re not thinking about putting her on the stand, are you?”
“She may insist on it. And unless you come up with something, that may be my only play.”
“Mike Sullivan will be licking his chops. He can’t wait to get me up there.”
Before I left Todt Hill, I called Cormac Levine and asked if I could buy him lunch.
“I believe that’s what they call a rhetorical question. I’ll wait for you outside the precinct.”
A half hour later we were sitting in Lee’s Tavern in Dongan Hills drinking chianti, eating salads and waiting for our pizza.
“I thought you’d pick Chinese,” I said.
“I’ll ignore the ethnic slur. Besides, I’m only half Jewish.”
“I notice that you’re also not ignoring the wine. Aren’t you on duty?”
“I’m head of Community Affairs for the precinct. I have to interact with the public. Lots of lunches, dinners, awards ceremonies and crap. Gotta blend in, put people at ease, prove we’re regular guys.”
Cormac was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt outside pink pants. The odds of him blending in anywhere in the Solar System were minimal.
“So, they encourage you to drink?”
“No. But as my sainted Irish mother would say, fuck it.”
“You mom would never say that.”
“Not in so many words.”
“Steve Long hired me to do research on the Olsen case.”
“I know.”
Of course he would. Cormac was one of the best detectives in the city. He had been a mainstay of the D.A.’s squad but was pushed out when Sullivan took over and put in his own
crew. It was a move that I’d heard Sullivan now regretted and there was even some talk that Cormac might be restored to his old job. For the time being, he was in exile in the 122 Precinct in New Dorp. But a lot of cops consulted with him and he was dialed in to every precinct in the borough, and many of them in the other boroughs.
“So, what have you heard?”
Cormac finished his salad and was eyeing mine, half-eaten. I pushed it across to him.
“Salad is good for you,” he said.
“Especially with a loaf of Italian bread and just before a pizza.”
“Don’t forget the vino,” he said as he forked salad into his mouth. “Anyway. It’s open and shut. Broad had motive, opportunity, was caught leaving the scene a few seconds after the murder with the murder weapon smoking in her hand. The fact that she wasn’t carrying the Lindberg baby is the only thing she has going for her.”
“And me.”
He gave me a look I’ve seen a hundred times. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d saved his career by lying about how a child molester fell off a balcony and he probably had prevented me from being electrocuted by Florida, I’d have been insulted.
“Don’t tell me you think she’s innocent. What is it with you and the dames? Aren’t any of them guilty?”
“I didn’t say she isn’t. But her story is just crazy enough to be true.”
“And you are an expert on crazy stories. Need I remind you of your last case?”
Our pizza arrived. Which gave me a chance to think up a witty riposte. Except I couldn’t. We both took a slice and started eating. There may be nothing better than the first slice of Lee’s Tavern pizza just out of the oven. The next slices were nothing to sneeze at either.
After a while Cormac said, “You talk to her yet? I hear she is a bit of a head case.”
I recounted my conversation with Elizabeth Olsen. Mac and I harbored many mutual secrets, any one of which would end our respective careers. As such things usually happen with people who are basically on the same side of the law, whichever that is, we went from having each other over a barrel to being fast friends. Short of murder, there was nothing I couldn’t confide in him that wouldn’t stay confided. And I wasn’t even sure about murder. Mac was a perfect sounding board. The fact that he was one of the sharpest detectives on the planet, other than moi, was a bonus.
When I finished, he said, “Sex broken. I like that. Haven’t heard that one before. Sounds like a Kraut sausage.”
“Is everything food with you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mac looked at the slice remaining on my side of the pizza. “You gonna eat that?”
“I wouldn’t reach for it unless you were in the men’s room, Cormac. I value my hand.”
“Here’s what I think,” he said as he picked up the slice. “She’s a nut. She lied to you about not being emotionally bereft. The guy was a prick but probably didn’t deserve to have his head blown off.” He paused. “Or she’s innocent.”
I laughed.
“You are probably the only cop I know who can see both sides of an open-and-shut case, and uses the word ‘bereft.’ Will you help me?”
“Sure. I don’t want you to be bereft. What do I have to lose? I’ll wheedle a lot more meals out of you. And next time is Chinese. I love Chink food.”
CHAPTER 11 – EMPIRE BUILDER
After I dropped Cormac off at the precinct I went to my office. I wanted to work the Internet for every bit of information I could find on the Olsen family. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. But I’d learned that information opens doors, and I was in the door-opening business.
My outer office was looking a little bare. I had managed to kill off several of the plants and other flora that Nancy Robart at the Botanical Garden had given me when I first set up shop in the building. Since a couple of them were from a cacti strain that had thrived millions of years in environment and climates more hostile than New York City, Nancy said I probably qualified as an extinction-level event. Luckily, I had given some plants to other offices in the building, where they were thriving. And ever since Abby started working for me part-time, my own office survivors were now holding their own. She was also adding little decorating touches. Nothing I couldn’t live with. And somehow she had found coffee mugs like the ones they had in old-time diners, off-white with thick rounded edges and handles. They made even a mediocre cup of coffee taste better. And guys like me live on mediocre coffee.
After an hour on the computer I had a pretty good picture of the Olsens, or at least as much information about them as was public. Some of it, of course, I already knew. After all, they were a prominent family and everyone on Staten Island who wasn’t a recent immigrant had heard of them.
The first Olsens settled on Staten Island before the Revolutionary War and later descendants prospered in various mercantile businesses, of which Olsen Bakery, which had many outlets across the borough, was the most successful. There was only one store left, now owned by an Italian family that kept the name and still made decent stollen fruitcake. But the most successful of the Olsens was Gus, Konrad’s grandfather, who accumulated hundreds of acres of mid-Island farmland. As a working enterprise, Olsen Farms was a mixed bag that eventually encompassed a nursery, riding stables, a small airport and an outdoor movie theater that served the necking needs of a generation of Staten Island teen-agers. Olsen Farms was barely a break-even operation until the Verrazano-Narrow Bridge opened in 1964 and Staten Island land suddenly became valuable as the population began to surge.
A visionary of sorts, Konrad Olsen sold the property to the developers who constructed the Staten Island Mall and many of the communities that surrounded it. He took the money and went into the construction and development business himself and built an empire. The numerous media articles about Konrad invariably depicted him as savvy, politically connected, civic-minded and, of course, philanthropic. Not one story mentioned the well-known fact that he was a ruthless son of a bitch, which everyone who didn’t benefit from his advertising dollars knew. Tempering that insider assessment was a grudging appreciation that the Olsens weren’t carpetbaggers and, unlike other developers, tended to build things that were nice to look at and didn’t fall down.
I shut my laptop. I was only scratching the surface. As with all families and businesses, there were secrets. Any family that could produce an Elizabeth Olsen, whether she was a killer or not, would have a bushel of them.
I called the Olsen Development Corporation and asked for Konrad Olsen. I was told by an efficient-sounding woman that he was overseeing the construction of the company’s new complex in a corporate park in Fairfield, NJ. Would I like her to reach him? I would. I was put on hold and a minute later she said Mr. Olsen could see me the next day unless I wanted to drive out to New Jersey. I did. She gave me the corporate park’s address.
It took me just over an hour to drive to Fairfield, which is in northern New Jersey just short of where the state becomes stunning. It always amazes me that New Jersey, billed as the most-crowded state in the union, looks verdant and vacant 20 miles west of its urban areas.
“Gladys,” which is what I call my GPS system, had no trouble finding the sprawling corporate park. I took it from there. Using all my detective skills, I quickly found Olsen. He was standing with a group of men outside a partially completed building next to a construction trailer and crane. They were all looking at plans. I think someone hands you a set of plans whenever you walk on a work site. I didn’t get one. It was late in the day. Maybe they ran out.
Everyone was wearing red hard hats. I hoped they wouldn’t offer me one. I have nothing against head protection. A helmet has saved my life on several occasions. But hard hats make me want to grab a shield and a sword and say, “We who are about to die salute you!” Besides, the only obvious danger seemed to be from the crane that was lifting pallets to the top floor of the building, which was at least 10 stories tall. If it dropped one of the pallets, the hard hats would only come in ha
ndy to identify the bodies. “Is that blood? Nope, a hard hat.”
Olsen spotted me and held up a hand. He said something to the men and then walked over. We shook.
“What is it that can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Nothing in particular. But I’m easily distracted. By tomorrow I might forget I’m trying to help your daughter.”
He stared at me, then smiled.
“I’m just surprised that you are so conscientious. You’re being paid by the day, no? I would expect you to, how can I put it, take your time.”
“I’m not in the construction business. I don’t stand around looking at plans making believe I’m busy.”
He laughed.
“You’d never make it in the construction business.” He swept a hand to encompass the construction site. “This is my own project, and I’ve got cost overruns. Fucking unions.”
I didn’t want to get into labor relations with Olsen. Guys like him made millions selling homes to people who never would be able to afford them but for their union salaries and pensions, but logic is never a strong suit with the ‘haves.’ So I just smiled.
“Maybe you’re just trying to impress me, Rhode.”
“Are you easily impressed, Mr. Olsen?”
He snorted. In some books I’d read, people snorted, but it’s rare in real life. I hoped it was only a male thing.
“Hell, no. I don’t give a flying fuck about anyone. Except Elizabeth. Come on, let’s go over to the trailer and have a cup of coffee.”
The trailer was empty. With the boss on site, everyone was probably pretending to be working. There was a counter on which sat a large coffee maker and a tray with paper cups, powdered creamer, packets of sugar and other sweeteners. We each took our coffees black. I was happy to find out it was good. There were several metal chairs around a small table. We sat.
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