by Barbara Paul
At least she knew that Knowles had liked model trains. And cats. His address, his expensive clothes, and his semi-expensive hobby all told her he wasn’t hurting for money. The lack of personal items in his billfold suggested … caution? Wariness? Or perhaps Knowles was just an old man who had withdrawn from the world. But if that was the case, why did someone want him dead? Did he control a lot of money?
Detective Dowd interrupted her musings. “Hey, Lieutenant, that private eye is here—Esterhaus’s boss.”
“Good. Send him in.”
She made a note to herself of several avenues of investigation that might tell them something of Knowles’s finances; money had been behind almost every murder she had investigated since she first earned her gold shield. Marian was aware of someone stepping into her office; she finished writing and looked up.
“You rang?” said Curt Holland.
7
He stood there in the doorway of Marian’s office as if he owned it: the King of Manhattan bestowing a regal favor. His clothes were fresh and costly-looking, as they always were. Expensive gray business suit and tie; Marian had never seen him in a tie before. But deep shadows lay under his eyes. Zoe Esterhaus had said he was flying back from London last night … jet lag, then. Or a more general weariness.
“What were you doing in London?” she asked abruptly.
“Tending to business.”
Meaning it’s none of mine, she thought. Marian had almost forgotten how thick and soft his hair was. She hadn’t seen Holland in over a month; he could be up to anything, as far as she knew. It might even be legal. “Playing it close to the vest? What a surprise.”
“I strive for consistency.”
“You succeed.”
They both fell silent, challenging each other. Marian stared back as his black eyes never left hers—reminding her, questioning her, daring her. Exhausting her. Curt Holland was not a man one could ignore. Marian had tried.
At least it was encouraging to discover that she had not the slightest urge to jump up and rip his clothes off. Not the slightest. No. “We’re going to have to work together,” she told him simply. “There’s no way around it.”
He gave her the sardonic smile that she hated. “But I’m sure you looked long and hard to find one.”
Damn him. “Holland, I didn’t know you were Zoe Esterhaus’s boss until you stepped into that doorway!”
“Now tell me another.”
“Believe it or not … I don’t much care. Why do I always end up justifying myself to you?”
He gave in, a little. “I do believe it. You’ve never lied to me. Why do I always end up apologizing to you?”
Marian was silent a moment, letting him work that one out for himself. She looked away from those high cheekbones a model would kill for and concentrated on the matter at hand. “We have police business to take care of,” she said with finality. “So let’s take care of it. Esterhaus filled you in on what happened?”
In response, he raised one arm in an extravagant Elizabethan gesture, indicating the chair facing her desk. “May I?”
Marian merely nodded, not rising to the bait; Holland was never more courteous than when her own manners suffered a lapse. “You know how Oliver Knowles died?”
Holland seated himself and said, “Gunshot wound, administered on a crosstown bus in the midst of a crowd of unseeing passengers, one of whom was my operative. Contract, of course.”
“Who hired you to have Knowles followed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Holland—”
“Hear me out,” he said quickly. “I really don’t know.” He sighed. “I have in my employ a brilliant young hacker named André Flood, who knows more about computing than I do. Nineteen years old and two college degrees. He handles much of our computer-related investigations—”
“He does? But that’s your turf.”
Holland grunted. “I’ve decided I don’t want to spend the rest of my life staring at a computer screen,” he replied testily. “Don’t interrupt. André knows all there is to know about computers, but he still has a great deal to learn about the way a private investigation agency operates.”
“He took the case.”
Holland nodded. “My own plans had changed rather quickly—I had to leave for London a day earlier than I’d planned. I called the office from JFK and André was the only one there. Shortly after I called, a woman came in and paid a cash retainer to have Oliver Knowles followed. André called Zoe—who thought the orders were coming from me, since André neglected to tell her I was already on my way to London.” He sighed. “I’d be surprised if André gave the matter a second thought. He undoubtedly resented being taken away from his computer even long enough to get her to sign a contract.”
“Name on the contract?”
“Laura Cisney.” He spelled it. “But it’s false. And her address is a phony too. André and I spent the morning searching through bank records, the DMV, Social Security, and so on—nothing. There’s no such person as Laura Cisney.”
Marian was not at all pleased by this reminder that Holland could access supposedly secure electronic records with such ease. “What did she look like?”
“Medium.”
She stared. “That’s it? Medium?”
Holland spread his hands. “According to André. Medium height, medium weight, medium hair, medium eyes … I asked him what color medium eyes are, and he flapped his hands and said, ‘Oh, you know—medium.’”
Marian shook her head. “Not good enough. Get him in here, Holland. I’ll put him with one of the portrait people and they can build a face.”
“I’ll send him in, but don’t count on much.” A corner of his mouth twisted. “André is not … the most observant young man in the world. He introduced himself to Zoe three times before she got tired of it and started wearing a name tag in the office.”
“Huh. I hope your André isn’t badgering you to go out on a case.”
“Fortunately, no. The very thought terrifies him.”
“Where’d you find this guy?”
A slow smile. “I looked for him.”
His nice smile. “Then he must be dynamite with a computer,” Marian said.
“That he is.”
“Is there anything else?” she asked. “Do you know anything more at all that might help us get started?”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t. But I’d like to make up for this absence of specifics. I feel a certain embarrassment at the lack of professionalism my agency displayed when I was not here to ride herd on everybody. Any way I can help, just say the word.”
Marian considered. There were many things about Curt Holland that she didn’t trust, but his efficiency was not one of them. Maybe she could save the city a few bucks. “This electronic search you made for Laura Cisney—how thorough was it?”
“Pretty thorough. There are a few places left to look, though.”
“Look there, then? And let me know what you find?”
“Certainly. Always happy to save the city a dollar or two.”
She glowered, hating to be so transparent. “That’s all, then. Thanks for coming in.”
There was a brief pause, after which Holland announced to the world at large: “I am dismissed. The lieutenant has spoken.” He pronounced it lefftenant.
He stood up and moved to the door, where he assumed a military posture and bowed stiffly. “What the lieutenant wishes, the lieutenant gets.”
Marian smiled. “And don’t you forget it,” she said mildly.
8
It was lunchtime before Perlmutter called in. “Oliver Knowles was a widower. One son—Austin Knowles, an architect. We tracked him down at a construction site on Wall Street. He didn’t tell us anything—he was pretty broken up, Lieutenant.”
“Where is he now?” Marian asked.
“Went home.” He read off a Fifth Avenue address. “I told him you’d be along later. But Oliver Knowles had a cook-housekeeper, Ellen Rudolph—an
d she was pretty broken up too. Widow, lives in. But she did tell us Knowles was a retired toy manufacturer. There’s one more person living in the apartment, Knowles’s secretary … name of Lucas Novak. But he’s in Florida this week. Family matter, Mrs. Rudolph said.”
Marian wrote down Austin Knowles, Mrs. Ellen Rudolph, Lucas Novak. “Didn’t Mrs. Rudolph wonder when Knowles didn’t come home last night?”
“She didn’t know. She’s just getting over the flu, and Knowles had told her he’d fend for himself until she felt better. She hadn’t left her suite for a couple of days.”
“Suite?”
“Yeah, suite. That housekeeper lives better than I do. Lucas Novak has his own suite too. And two whole rooms of the apartment are given over to an elaborate model-train layout, Mrs. Rudolph says. You gotta see that place, Lieutenant.”
“I intend to.” Live-in help—money money money. “Did you ask the housekeeper to let you look around?”
Perlmutter hesitated. “No, I didn’t. The lady’s sick, Lieutenant, and she’s upset by Knowles’s death. Besides, I thought we ought to notify the son before we did anything else.”
“You did right,” Marian said. “In the meantime, I want you to go to Lionel Madison Trains on East Twenty-third and that new place …” She looked through her notes. “Hobby World on Thirty-fourth Street. Find out if Knowles ever came in with anybody, and how he paid for his purchases. Get some more names, Perlmutter.”
“Do my best,” he said. “What about the private that was following Knowles?”
“A probable dead end,” Marian told him. “I’ll fill you in when you get back.” She said goodbye and hung up.
Marian added her notes to Knowles’s file. So Knowles had made toys for a living—evidently a very lucrative living, since he obviously was well-heeled at the time of his death. And he’d spent his retirement years playing with trains. Was he on good terms with his son? Why did a retired toymaker need a secretary? Did he have any regular visitors? Where else did he go besides model-train stores when he went out?
She checked the time and headed for Captain Murtaugh’s office, hoping to catch him before he left for lunch. She was in luck; the captain was poring over a report but waved her in.
“What have you got on the bus killing?” he asked.
Marian brought him up to date, sketching out what she planned to do next. “At this point I’d be tempted to consider the possibility that the shooter got the wrong man—if it weren’t for the fact that someone hired a private to tail Knowles. Something was going on.”
“The man had money,” Murtaugh said. “There’s your motive.”
Marian was inclined to agree. “So far, nothing else about his life seems to explain an act of murder. But we’re just getting started.”
“This woman who wanted him followed—how does she fit in?”
“Don’t know yet. She couldn’t be the one who paid for the hit—why would she go to a private investigator for a simple tail job, then? Could be the two aren’t connected at all.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“No. But it’s possible. You know we probably won’t find her, don’t you?”
The captain didn’t like that. “This hacker who’s the only one who saw her … he can’t give us anything at all?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet, but Holland says he’s pretty unobservant.”
“Let’s not take Holland’s word for it, shall we?” Murtaugh said dryly. He and Holland had met a couple of times; the two didn’t exactly hit it off. “When’s this André coming in?”
“He may be here now. I called in a technician from the Graphic Arts Unit.” Like many cops, Marian was herself trained in the use of Identakit, the book of manual plastic overlays of mouths, eyes, hairstyles, etc.; but the result was always a line drawing. Computer programs could build a portrait the same way and then morph the drawing into a recognizable human face. “I left word I wanted to see him after he finishes with the portrait.”
Murtaugh nodded. “Keep me posted.” He turned back to the report he’d been reading.
Marian started out but hesitated. “Captain?”
He didn’t look up. “Something else?”
She hesitated again, but then blurted out: “Captain Murtaugh, have you ever been the best man in a wedding?”
That got his attention. Surprised, he said, “As a matter of fact, I have. My brother’s wedding, in Pittsburgh—oh, a good twenty years ago. Why?”
Marian sighed. “My former partner is getting married.” This next part was awkward. “And he’s asked me to be his best man.”
Captain Murtaugh stared … and then barked a laugh. “You? Best man?”
She sighed again. “Preposterous, isn’t it? But Ivan says there’s no other place for me in the ceremony. I’ve only just met the bride, so I can’t be a member of her party. I might add that Ivan is getting a lot of fun out of this.”
Murtaugh laughed again. “I met him, didn’t I? Sergeant up in the Three-two? I forget his last name.”
“Malecki. Ivan Malecki. What I want to know is … what am I supposed to do? I know I have to make sure Ivan and the ring both make it to the church—but what else? Ivan’s no help. He’s too busy cracking jokes about the best man at his wedding to give me any straight answers. But when the time comes, he’s going to be panic-stricken and start thinking of all these little details that haven’t been taken care of and … well, you see the problem. Do you mind telling me what you did at your brother’s wedding?”
The captain was leaning back in his chair, grinning at her. “You do have interesting problems, Larch. Well, let’s see. What did I do as best man? It’s been a while. Hm … I had to make sure everyone in the wedding party had transportation from the church to where the reception was being held.”
“Oh my,” Marian said and took out her notebook and started writing.
“And the best man is traditionally in charge of the ushers. Make sure they know what they’re supposed to do, like that.”
Marian groaned.
“You know you’re supposed to toast the bride and groom at the reception?”
“Yes, I know about that.”
“Oh … and I remember I had to pay everybody who got paid,” the captain went on. “My brother gave me a bunch of envelopes with checks in them, and it was up to me to pay the caterers, the organist—is there going to be an organist?”
“I have no idea,” Marian said faintly.
“Musicians at the reception? They’ll have to be paid. And the priest—don’t forget the … minister? Rabbi?”
“Priest,” she said. “I’m not Catholic. Will that cause problems?”
“Naw. You just won’t take part in the prenuptial confession, that’s all.” Suddenly he sat up straight. “You know what you should do? Have you met the bride’s mother?”
“Not yet.”
“Then go introduce yourself. Enlist her help. It’s always the mother who runs these things anyway. She’ll tell you exactly what’s expected of you.”
Marian brightened. “That’s a good idea! Thanks, Captain! That’s just what I’ll do. Oh lord, I’ll be glad when this is over.”
“Hey, you’ll have a great time. You’ll see.”
“If I don’t kill Ivan first.”
“You can always refuse.”
“I did. I told him I’d be perfectly happy just to be a guest at his wedding. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He just kept on and on at me about it and … well, he wore me down. And now I’m stuck.”
Murtaugh was laughing again. He was still laughing when Marian got up and went back to her own office.
The detectives’ squadroom was busy. About three-fourths of the desks were occupied, phones were ringing, and most of the extra chairs had been taken by victims, suspects, witnesses—all talking loudly, straining to make themselves heard over the racket. It was bound to happen; the morning had been too quiet.
Marian was thinking about lunch when she saw someone wa
s waiting in her office—a woman in her late twenties, dark hair pulled straight back and fastened at the nape. Sharp clothes. She stood up when Marian walked in.
“Lieutenant Larch? My name is Paula Dancer—I’m from the Graphic Arts Unit. I was just working with André Flood on a portrait of a woman he’s supposed to identify?”
“Ah, good. Did you finish?”
“Uh, yes, we finished it.”
“Then what’s the problem? Why didn’t you just send it up?”
“I thought I’d better bring it to you myself.” She opened a folder and took out the computer-generated portrait.
Marian looked at the portrait … and then looked back at Paula Dancer. “That’s you!”
Dancer nodded slowly, a wry smile on her face. “Just as a test, I asked André to describe the man he works for. We built up a perfect likeness of the man sitting at the next desk.”
Marian made a noise of exasperation. “Do you have that one with you?”
“Uh—yes.” She fished another portrait out of her folder. “Do you know him?”
“I know the man André works for.” Marian looked at the portrait. “And he doesn’t look anything like that! Christ.”
Dancer smiled in sympathy. “I’m afraid our André is easily distracted. I thought you ought to know.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. Where is our wonderful witness now?”
“He’s out in the squadroom. Shall I send him in?”
“Please.”
Dancer grinned. “You know, I think that’s the first time anyone has said ‘please’ to me since I joined the force. I’ll go get André.” She left.
André Flood, when he came in, was a surprise. Like most people, Marian had a mental picture of a computer hacker as someone overweight, unkempt, with bad skin. A can of Coke in one hand and a bag of munchies in the other. But that must have been the first generation of hackers; Holland’s André was, in contrast, exceedingly kempt. Jacket and tie, good haircut, and a perfect baby-boy face that must drive the girls wild. He called Marian “ma’am” and avoided eye contact.