LAURA LEE (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 2)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Who, other than the cops and the D.A.’s office, knows what you’ve been up to?”

  “You mean, other than a lot of people in Georgia and Manhattan, no one.”

  “You’re fucked. The only choice you have is to finish this.” He paused. “Or blow the whistle on Sharon Sullivan, even if she’s only guilty of hiding her past. If that’s what the shooter is trying to prevent, once it’s out you’re in the clear.”

  “I can’t do that. Not without talking to her first.”

  Cormac nodded. We both looked at Brutus, who had added growls to his repertoire and was still shaking his meal back and forth.

  “I’d rather be that bagel,” I said.

  CHAPTER 27 – A WAY WITH WOMEN

  After agonizing much of the day about how to approach Sharon Sullivan in private, preferably not in her home, I finally caught a break. There was a front-page story in the Richmond Register about a fashion show sponsored by All Our Children, a local nonprofit devoted to rescuing kids from abusive homes. The article, which normally would have been relegated to the society pages, prominently featured the wife of the District Attorney whom the Register was not-so-subtly supporting in the upcoming election.

  The event was scheduled to start at 7 P.M. at Li Greci’s Staaten, a historically named West Brighton catering hall not a mile from my house. Sharon headed the decorating committee, which meant she would probably be at the hall most of the afternoon helping to set things up. And unless Michael Sullivan was brain dead, he, and all the other husbands, would be home watching a ball game or playing golf.

  I was right. When I got to the Staaten, Sharon and a dozen other women were flitting around tables arranging centerpieces and place cards in the main ballroom. An elevated runway had been built in the middle of the floor extending to one of the doorways, behind which, I assumed, was a makeshift dressing room.

  When Sharon spotted me, she smiled and walked over.

  “Are you here to volunteer, Alton? We can use all the help we can get.”

  I hadn’t seen her since Elizabeth Olsen’s funeral. Her presence there had taken on a whole new meaning, although I wasn’t sure what it was. Guilt? Triumph? She looked more serene now, and more beautiful than ever.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could speak to you in private for a few moments.”

  “This is a terrible time. We’re running late as it is. We haven’t even started on the dressing rooms yet and the fashion show starts in less than two hours.”

  As if on cue one of the other volunteers came over.

  “Sharon, we have place cards for 10 people at the Bank of Richmond County table. It only seats eight. What should we do?”

  “Tell them to empty their pockets,” I said. “Then they’ll all fit.”

  The woman looked shocked. I turned to Sharon Sullivan.

  “I need a few minutes. Now.”

  There was the barest flicker of concern in her eyes.

  “I’ll be right with you, Marge,” she said.

  ***

  The Staaten has a restaurant that offers decent lunches at what has to be break-even prices. As a result, at one time or another it feeds just about everyone living on a fixed income on the North Shore. The retirees and their families reciprocate with funeral repasts, wedding receptions bar mitzvahs, first communions and charitable functions. The catering halls are booked into the next ice age. The restaurant also has a good bar. It was well past the lunch hour and the early drinkers hadn’t drifted in yet so Sharon and I had the place to ourselves, except for the bartender, Richie, who I knew slightly. I know a lot of neighborhood bartenders slightly. Maybe too many. He smiled at me and walked over as Sharon and I sat in the short corner of the bar away from the television, which was tuned to a soccer game. I’m beginning to believe the game is catching on in the U.S.

  I ordered a scotch. Sharon said she didn’t really want anything.

  “I think you want a drink,” I said.

  Something in the tone of my voice got through to her. Her eyes widened and she lost her semi-permanent smile.

  “I’ll have an Absolute on the rocks,” she said.

  “And a bowl of nuts,” I said.

  A cigarette would have gone better with the conversation I was about to initiate. It’s easier to discuss things, especially hard things, when you can do something with your hands. But those days are gone in New York City. The Mayor has reportedly leased C.I.A. drones armed with Hellfire missiles to discourage smoking in bars and restaurants. So nuts would have to do, at least until he declared war on salt.

  When Richie brought our order, I asked him to turn up the sound on the TV.

  “Why don’t you and the lady sit closer, Alton. It’s a good game. Arsenal versus Cologne.”

  I looked at Richie. He knew the look and went to sit by the TV, which he turned up. We were effectively alone. I took a long pull on my scotch.

  “I don’t know quite how to say this, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “Please, call me Sharon.”

  I ignored that.

  “You know that I was hired by Konrad Olsen to help Elizabeth’s defense.”

  “Yes. I remember Mike mentioning it at the Mancuso cocktail party.”

  “Something has come up.”

  Up till then she had ignored her drink. Now she picked it up and downed half of it. I could see her hand trembling slightly.

  “Something has come up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought that after the poor woman’s suicide, well, that, you know, the case was closed.”

  “Her father doesn’t think it was a suicide. He thinks she was murdered. So do I.”

  Sharon Sullivan’s complexion, naturally pale, went paler and her jaw dropped. I had some doubts about my ability to judge a woman’s sincerity. During my last case I had been hoodwinked by two women portraying a mother and daughter. One was a professional actress, which took some of the sting from the con. The other was a hooker, of the type basically sitting next to me in the bar. But that whole deal was a setup. Sharon Sullivan looked genuinely shocked. I think she believed Elizabeth Olsen had killed herself.

  “Murder.”

  It was barely a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  She finished her drink and looked down to the bartender. I signaled him and held up two fingers. I ate some peanuts while he fixed our new drinks. He left.

  “Do you have proof?”

  “Nothing that will stand up in court, yet. But I’m convinced. And I’ll eventually get it.”

  “Does my husband know what you think?”

  She was staring into the smoked mirror behind the bar. Her voice had taken on a strange timber. It was almost as if I wasn’t there.

  “Not yet.

  I let that hang there.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Someone tried to kill me today, and while I’m not the most popular guy in the world it occurs to me that the attempt is probably related to the case I’m working. The real killer thought he, or she, was in the clear with the apparent suicide of the primary suspect in Denton’s murder. But I’m still digging, which makes me a threat.”

  Sharon Sullivan continued to look into the mirror. I thought I saw her nod her head, almost imperceptibly. I was going out on a limb. I hadn’t reported the shooting. But I suspected that Sharon Sullivan wouldn’t either. Finally, she turned and looked at me.

  “You said ‘he, or she.’ Does that mean you think a woman might have killed Denton?”

  I had reached the Rubicon.

  “We found another woman’s fingerprints on the chair and ottoman that Denton used for his sex games, the chair he was found murdered in. They are your fingerprints.”

  I heard a burst of feminine laughter from the ballroom. I was glad somebody was having a nice time.

  “My fingerprints! You must be crazy.” Her voice rose. I saw Richie the bartender glance at us. “What would my fingerprints be doing … wait, of course, Mike and I have been in Denton’s house
several times. It’s only natural….”

  “You’re not making this easy,” I said. “Laura Lee.”

  She actually physically recoiled in her chair. I grabbed her arm to steady her.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  She threw the remainder of her drink in my face, and then slapped me for good measure. Bursting into tears , she got up and walked unsteadily toward the ballroom. Riveting soccer game or no, our little scene had drawn Richie’s attention. He walked over, smiling.

  “A twofer! Drink and slap. You still got a way with the women, Rhode. You do know that’s the D.A.’s wife , don’t you? Who are you planning to proposition next? The First Lady?”

  “Ah, a man’s grasp should always exceed his reach,” I said, wiping my face and throwing some bills on the bar, “or what is heaven for?”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Robert Browning.”

  When I got to the ballroom I saw a huddle of women, but no Mrs. District Attorney. From the looks the women gave me I knew I had precipitated the huddle. I walked up to them.

  “Have any of you ladies seen Mrs. Sullivan?”

  I flashed my most endearing smile. It never fails.

  “She just ran through here crying, you bastard.” Well, almost never. It was Marge. “What the fuck did you say to her?”

  Marge was apparently a tough cookie, and the other girls surrounded me. They looked like they were ready to turn their huddle into a scrum.

  “I’m afraid I gave her some bad news. Her cat was run over by a road paver.”

  As I quickly headed toward an exit I heard one woman say, “That’s so sad. Sharon really loved that cat.”

  I didn’t know the Sullivans had a cat. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky.

  CHAPTER 28 – ON THE HOOK

  By the time I got out to the parking lot Sharon Sullivan was nowhere to be seen.

  “Excellent job, Rhode,” I said to about a dozen empty cars.

  I drove home. When I pulled around the back of my house I was actually looking forward to seeing Scar. He wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d heard about my cat remark and disapproved. Or maybe he didn’t want to be accidentally shot. I went in and called Alice Watts.

  “I was hoping you’d call,” she said.

  Of all the things a beautiful woman can say to a man, that’s near the top of the list. At the very top was the last thing she said.

  “Why don’t you bring a change of clothes?”

  ***

  We were sitting in the rear courtyard of a small French restaurant on Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. It was warm but not unbearably so and the yellow hanging lanterns gave the place a charm that I assumed would be matched by the food. Alice had picked the restaurant and she knew the area. We were both drinking vodka gimlets, straight up. I had asked for a shot glass of Rose’s Lime Juice on the side.

  “Sometimes they don’t get the proportions just right,” I explained to Alice. “This way we can adjust without having to send the drinks back.”

  “What happens if they make the drinks with too much lime juice to begin with?”

  She never failed to ask the sensible questions.

  “In my experience, that has never happened, so I play the odds.”

  “And we know you’ve had a lot of gimlet experience.”

  “Enough for a statistically relevant sampling.”

  “Why only one shot glass? I’ve never seen you have just one gimlet, or martini or Manhattan.”

  “One shot glass is plenty to make a gimlet perfect,” I said. “After the first it doesn’t seem to matter. They could put a lime tree in the glass and it would taste good.”

  Our waiter told us the specials. He recommended the rabbit. That reminded me of my recent adventure in the woods at Snug Harbor.

  “No venison?”

  “Sorry, sir. Just rabbit.”

  Neither of us felt like eating Thumper. Alice ordered sole meunière and I opted for the cassoulet. I indeed ordered a second gimlet, while Alice asked for a glass of chardonnay. I glanced at the wine list and told the waiter to bring a bottle of Brick House Pinot Noir when our meals came.

  “Something is bothering you,” she said after he left.

  “I’m having second thoughts about the cassoulet.”

  “Alton.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve had a bad day.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, someone tried to shoot me this morning, and it went downhill from there.”

  “My God! What could be worse than getting shot at?”

  “Well, Sharon Sullivan threw a vodka in my face. She also slapped me, which I thought was overkill. Of course, I did tell her I knew she wasn’t really named Sharon and that I suspected she may have killed John Denton.”

  A server holding tongs and a bread basket came to our table and asked us what kind of rolls we wanted.

  “Round ones,” Alice said, her eyes locked on mine.

  “Start at the beginning,” she said after the server departed.

  “The Big Bang?”

  “Keep joking, buddy, and your chances of any kind of bang will evaporate.”

  By the end of dinner, I’d told Alice everything.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I think I’ll have a brandy.”

  “Funny.”

  “Hell, Alice. I don’t know. I have more information than I know what to do with, information that has the potential to destroy two lives. If Sharon Sullivan is guilty only of lying about her past, do I have the right to expose her? But if she killed Denton, then I have the obligation to clear Elizabeth Olsen’s name.”

  “You have the obligation to stay alive! Someone doesn’t want you to find out who killed Denton. Whether it’s Sharon or someone else who wants to cover up the murder, you have to find out.”

  “For a philosophy professor, you have a very logical thought process. Are you sure you’re not an imposter?”

  Our waiter started to clear.

  “Would you like to see our dessert menu?”

  “I’d like to see two cognacs,” Alice said. “Courvoisier.”

  “Can I bring some coffee, Madame?”

  “You can bring the brandies,” she said with an edge to her voice.

  He scurried away.

  “If you expose Sharon, it will reopen the investigation into Denton’s murder,” Alice said.

  “Probably.”

  “Then there would be less reason to shoot you.”

  “At least as far as this case is concerned.”

  She ignored me.

  “But you won’t do it, will you?”

  “Not without more evidence. I want to give it more time. I’m missing something. I don’t like the feeling. There’s more at stake than Sharon’s reputation. Someone broke Elizabeth Olsen’s neck like a twig. She was my client. I can’t take my ball and go home and let the cops handle it.”

  Our cognacs came. The waiter didn’t tarry.

  “But you told your friend, Lieutenant Levine.”

  “Cormac will keep his mouth shut until I tell him not to.”

  “Or you get killed.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? He’s a police officer. Doesn’t he have a legal responsibility?”

  “He’s part Jewish and answers to a higher authority. We keep each other’s secrets and respect each other’s wishes.”

  Alice started to say something.

  “It’s the only way it can work in my world,” I said. “We play by the rules only when they make sense and if they don’t harm people more than they help.”

  “You are rationalizing what some people would say is irresponsible behavior.”

  “Who the hell rationalizes responsible behavior? The question is, what do you think?”

  Alice took a long pull of her cognac.

  “I’m a philosophy professor. I can justify anything.”

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “I love you. I
don’t want you to get shot.”

  ***

  “I’m glad you don’t have a cat,” I said.

  Alice was snuggling in my arms the next morning.

  “What?”

  “They say that if you don’t scare the cat, you’re not doing it right. I think last night we would have frightened a cat into therapy.”

  I felt her body shake with suppressed laughter.

  “We’ll have to try it in front of Scar,” she said. “That will be the ultimate test.”

  “To frighten him, one or both of us will probably have to die in the attempt.”

  “What a way to go,” she said.

  Then she turned serious.

  “I’m going to let you off the hook, Alt.”

  “About what?”

  “You said you loved me last night.”

  After dinner we had walked to Alice’s apartment and gone straight to bed. Her ardor was intense. She had dropped the “love” word earlier in the evening and later so had I.

  “So?”

  “It was in a moment when, how shall I say it, you were having an out of body experience.”

  “Well put. But I don’t see the problem.”

  “Men will say anything at that point. It doesn’t count.”

  “Now, just a minute.”

  “Don’t be mad. I’m not being critical.” Alice stroked my face. “And I really don’t have all that much experience. I just want you to know I understand.”

  I should have kept my mouth shut about the goddamn cat. But I never saw a gauntlet thrown that I didn’t pick up.

  “Listen, Alice, boys may tell girls they love them, to close the deal. It’s called high school. But men generally don’t throw the word around. I certainly don’t. If I said I loved you, I meant it. I love you.”

  Jesus Christ. I suddenly rolled on top of her and looked into her eyes.

  “Did you just maneuver me into saying that again?”

  Her smile lit up those beautiful eyes.

  “No, but it worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”

  We both started laughing as she slid into the proper position and adjusted her legs around me.