by David Bishop
The two men stared at one another until the old man looked down. Jack took on a presumptive air to cover what was in large part a guess. “We know you paid off when Allison was blackmailed for her activities in Luke Tittle’s place a few years back. It is not our intent to disclose any of that to anyone. We need you to tell us what you know about the blackmailer and how it went down.”
“Mr. McCall, do I have your assurance this will remain confidential?”
“Yes, unless I need to tell the authorities to prevent others from being blackmailed, or to catch and convict the blackmailer.”
Trowbridge took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and put the glasses back on. “All right,” he said. “On the conditions you stated. In the event you release what I am about to tell you without it being necessary, I will sue you, sir. As for Mr. Logan here, he’s of no consequence. I can have a dozen people, all with better pedigrees, swear I was somewhere else at whatever time you claim I was here. My driver is right this moment parked outside a building where I am having that meeting with that dozen people; and he will so swear. Do we understand each other, Mr. McCall?” Trowbridge took on the look of a coyote secreted near a rabbit hole.
Jack decided to let Trowbridge have his little king-of-hill feeling. The man might be more open feeling that he had gained some measure of protection over what he was about to say.
“You are a businessman of considerable success,” Jack began. “You’ve sat in on a lifetime of important meetings and negotiations where you had to hear what was said by voice and body language, even nuances. I want you to draw on those skills when recalling your talks with the blackmailer. Tell me what he said and what you heard without him saying it. Okay?”
“All right.”
Trowbridge spread his fingers before laying the flats of his hands on the conference table and looking into Jack’s eyes. “As you’ve implied, Allison gambled in Tittle’s backroom. She drank heavily and lost heavily. She didn’t know how to do either, but, well, young people often rebel through such behavior, don’t they?”
“Some. What’s relevant is that Allison did.”
Trowbridge frowned. “The blackmailer called on my private line in the study of my home, a number I had given to only a few in my inner circle. He said he held Allison’s markers totaling a quarter of a million. He demanded payment or he would turn them over to the press.” Trowbridge coughed up something, and then swallowed. “I paid. He returned the IOUs.”
“Come now, Mr. Trowbridge. We both know Tittle would not publicly acknowledge his illegal activities, but, even if he did, the press would have written it as the gangster Tittle taking advantage of an impetuous young woman. You’re a wealthy and savvy man. From what you’ve told me, you would not have paid the blackmailer.”
The lines in Trowbridge’s face leaked sweat. He swiped at a bead running down his cheek and again pushed his black-rimmed glasses tight against his face.
“There were also some pictures of Allison … being compromised by Tittle and some of his cronies. I paid to get back her IOUs and those damnable pictures.” He pulled off his glasses, tossed them onto the table, and irritably swiped his damp eyes.
“Did you get them?”
“Yes. I thank the blackmailer for being a man of his word and for his respectful manner. I’d also like to thank whoever killed that bastard Luke Tittle.”
“Tell me what your daughter told you about that night. As precisely as you remember.”
“She said. ‘I got wasted.’ She kept losing at the table and they kept bringing her drinks. After she had lost more than she realized, Tittle told her if she didn’t do what he demanded, he’d come to me. She didn’t know what to do; she did what Tittle told her. After she told me that, she got up, ran for her bedroom, and slammed the door. A few minutes later I heard her regurgitate into the water closet.”
“You mean throw up in the toilet?” Max asked.
“Yes, Mr. Logan, if you insist on being tawdry.” Trowbridge shifted in his chair, recrossed his legs and then ran the flat of his hand down the front of his shirt.
“Okay,” Jack said, “let’s get back to what happened. Tell me about his voice.”
“He spoke with a lisp the first time. But he used proper grammar and was well mannered.”
“The first time? You heard from him again?”
“Yes and I immediately presumed he was calling for more money.”
“Wasn’t he?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“To tell me I could pick up the IOUs and those execrable pictures in the same place I had left what he referred to as ‘your contribution.’ It was no such thing; I assure you. It was an illegal exaction. Then the scoundrel laughed and said, ‘You don’t think I’m honorable enough to keep my word? As I promised, you will never hear from me again.’”
“And you haven’t?”
“Not a word.”
“Tell me more about his voice? He had a lisp, and—”
“He did not have a lisp. He spoke as if he did during the first call. During his second call he dropped the fake lisp. Instead he held one of those units against his throat that allows people with damaged voice boxes to speak through the aid of vibrations. The only common element during the two calls was that he remained well mannered.”
“Put a timeline on these events?”
“The blackmailer’s initial call was a year and a half ago. That’s when I first learned of Allison’s, shall we say, unladylike behavior. About nine months ago the cur called the second time for the purpose I explained a moment ago. That long wait was excruciating, but we had no alternative but to sit tight. To his credit, the blackmailer kept his word.”
“Any other contact?”
“None.”
“Do you still have the pictures so we can identify the men?”
“I burned those horrid pictures in my fireplace, then I scooped up the ashes and, as Mr. Logan would describe the activity, flushed them down the toilet.” He touched his mouth and ran his tongue across his lips.
“What about the IOUs?”
“I disposed of them in the same manner.”
“Mr. Trowbridge,” Max said, “did you pay before or after Allison started her sessions with Dr. Andujar?”
“Before.”
“Are you certain of that sequence?” Jack asked.
“Yes. For quite some time Allison insisted she could deal with it alone, but she became a recluse. A week after we recovered the pictures, I convinced her to see Dr. Andujar.”
Jack looked at Max, who nodded slightly. Tittle’s records had somehow gotten into the hands of the blackmailer. And the blackmailer had not learned about Allison through her sessions with Chris Andujar.
“How did you select Dr. Andujar?” Max asked.
“I got his name from a friend.”
“Who?” Max asked.
“Dorothy Wingate. She had gone to Andujar for years. Swore by him.”
Jack came back into the conversation. “Is there anything else we should know?”
“I’ve told you everything, Mr. McCall. I should be going now.”
“Mr. Logan will drive you back to where he picked you up.”
Max held up Mr. Trowbridge’s imported cashmere coat.
Nora dashed into Jack’s office. “I’ve been waiting for you to get free.”
“Wassup?”
“I’ve found the forger,” she exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her toes.
Jack watched her bounce a moment longer before asking, “How long are you going to keep me in suspense?”
“Herman Flood, he’s one of the portrait painters on Harkin’s list. He lives and paints in New York City, in Manhattan. I told him I was the wife of the unnamed man who bought his paintings of Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy. He freely confirmed painting them.”
“What else?” Jack asked while watching her shift her legs to a sort of parade rest stance, tightening her skirt across her thighs.
“Nothing else. At that point I quit talking. I didn’t want to risk saying something that wouldn’t match up. I said we were the Millers, and we needed portraits of our directors to hang in the boardroom. We have an appointment for tomorrow morning at eight in his studio. I made our reservations at the Novatel Hotel in Manhattan. I figured we’d drive; it’s about four-hours. I also made dinner reservations at Gallagher’s Steak House, next door to the hotel.”
Nora sauntered over, sat on the edge of Jack’s desk and put a hand on her exposed knee. Then she gave what Jack assumed was a glimpse of the persona she had used during her meeting with Dr. Karros.
“Ms. Candy Robson from Jackson Hole would like you to take her to dinner in the Big Apple.”
Chapter 39
On the way up in the elevator at the hotel in Manhattan, Jack again asked Nora if Drummy’s camera outside her place had taken a picture of anyone coming to retrieve the recorder.
“No. I’m as anxious as you are, but so far, nothing. If the guy only knew about my salacious behavior, he’d have been there already.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “I’ll check again as soon as we get back.”
“If there’s still nothing,” Jack replied, “I’ll have Drummy check the remote and the camera to be sure they’re working.”
When the elevator doors opened Nora turned to face Jack. “Candy will need a few minutes to get ready for dinner. She’ll buzz you.”
Jack rode up to his floor and went into his room. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Nora as Candy Robson. One minute he was filled with hopes, even fantasies, and in the next minute crowded by reservations. Nora was his partner.
After a while, he called his office.
“McCall Investigations. Mary Lou speaking.”
“It’s Jack, anything shaking?” A moment later he heard a knock. “Hold on, Mary Lou, I think Nora’s at the door.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Come in. It’s unlocked.”
“Hi there, big boy. My name’s Candy Robson and I’m looking for a handsome hunk to take me to dinner.”
She looked ravishing. He kept his hand over the mouthpiece and held the phone out. “I’m checking in with Mary Lou.”
Nora walked over and stood in front of him and shimmied her shoulders, leaned in, and kissed the exposed side of his neck. He inhaled her perfume. His mouth inches from her cleavage.
He had forgotten the phone when Mary Lou startled him. “Nothing’s happening here. Anything shaking there?” He mumbled something, then Mary Lou said, “Now you and Nora find some time for fun while you’re in the Big Apple. You know, all work and no play.”
“If you need us,” Jack said, “you know the number. If you need someone fast, Max is on standby.”
Jack hung up the phone. “Now stop that. Behave yourself.”
Nora stopped.
“Who told you to stop?”
“Why you did, and tonight I’m yours to command.”
She leaned in and kissed his neck again, then put her arms around his shoulders, her cleavage coming even closer to his face.
Jack hadn’t been with a woman since Rachel died and his body was sending him past due notices, yet he was swamped by the feeling he would be cheating on his deceased wife.
“Stop!” He said too loudly and felt embarrassed. “We’re … we’re going to be late for dinner.”
In the elevator, Nora told Jack about the steakhouse. “Gallagher’s has been here for, I don’t know, a hundred years or something. The place was started by one of the Ziegfield girls named Gallagher. The walls are filled with autographed pictures of celebrities from Mayor Jimmy Walker, Mickey Mantle, and John Barrymore to the big names of today. And the food’s great.”
After being seated, they ordered martinis. Then reviewed their plan for handling the forger they would see in the morning. After chatting through dinner, he signed the credit voucher for their meal and emptied the second bottle of wine into their glasses.
Nora moved her glass and, without taking her eyes off Jack, crossed her arms below her breasts, making them rise even farther above her low-cut neckline. Then she reached out and put her hand on top of his. “Jack, we’ve been dancing around this long enough, and I’ve had enough to drink to say what’s on my mind. Will you listen?”
“Yes.”
Their faces were as close as possible, allowing for the disinterested table that stood between them.
“Rachel saved my life,” Nora began, “neither of us will ever forget her. No one can ever replace her, but we both know Rachel would not want you to live without love.” She stood and held out her hand. He took it and they left.
Jack unlocked the door to his hotel room and held it open. After they were inside, Nora closed the door and turned to face him. She approached him slowly, until she was standing right before him. Leisurely, she traced the curve of his neck with her fingers. She went up onto her tiptoes to have her lips trail over his ear, his cheek, and onto his mouth, teasing him with the tip of her tongue. Their lips met in all their glory. The kiss was not gentle, but hungry. A kiss crowded with promises. The air clouded with intimate feelings.
She backed away a few feet and turned slowly. “You haven’t told me how you like me as Candy Robson?”
Jack sat in the chair off to the side of the bed, still uncertain how he felt about what was about to occur. “I like Nora Burke, but you do look delicious in that Candy dress.”
She moved to other side of the bed, and slowly took off the dress. Beneath it she wore a red and black, satin and lace bustier with a see-through panty to match. Then there were her stockings. The back-seam, thigh-high nylons looked delicious on her. She walked around the bed dragging her dress beside her and dropped it on the floor next to his chair. She lowered her head and kissed him, a lingering wet kiss.
He reached up and put his hands on her.
After a few minutes, Nora stepped back, put one foot up on the bed, and slowly peeled off one of her nylons crowned by smooth white flesh, and draped it over the lamp on the dresser. Then she removed and draped the second stocking, casting the room in muted grayish light.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
He could hear her moving about, but could not tell what she was doing.
“Open your eyes.”
She was in bed, leaning into several pillows propped against the headboard, her reddish-blond hair outlining the side of her face. “Come over here,” she said, patting the open sheets beside her.
On the way he passed the bustier and panties she had draped overtop the nylons, easing the grayish light into a soft pink. The top sheet covered the lower half of her body except for one exposed leg, her arms extended along the sides of her breasts. Her nipples awakened.
Chapter 40
Herman Flood’s studio loft was atop an old industrial building across from the Hudson River. The lobby windows revealed hand-wiped smears wherever the sun struck the glass. The wood paneled walls around the bank of elevators wore dust the way peaches wore fuzz. Jack and Nora stepped into an elevator which greeted them with an indecipherable groan. Jack lowered its rough-hewn wood-slatted door, and pressed the hard white button below a hand-printed label that read: loft. When they stepped out at the top, the deep-throated horn of a river barge hollered a message understood by others who spoke boat.
The loft’s hardwood floors were covered with row after row of paintings leaning against high walls. The entire room was awash in the brightness that poured through windows on two sides and a peaked industrial skylight. One row of paintings was fronted by a colorful rendering of the city’s night lights reflecting off the river. Across from that a wonderful capturing of the skyline of Manhattan, but mostly the room was filled with portraits. A few of famous people, the rest unknowns, older, weathered faces with lines like road maps that foreshadowed their journeys, lessons learned, and pains survived.
Herman Flood’s painting skills far exceeded his selling skills.
Flood was older than sixty. He had small hands but a str
ong shake. He wore frail wire-framed glasses, a blue New York Giants T-shirt and a pair of jeans; both streaked with blotches of paint. His unruly white gossamer hair tossed like a salad of colors from his artist’s palette.
The old man’s warm smile towered over him as he shook hands with Nora. “How do you do, Mrs. Miller? I enjoyed speaking with you on the phone. Hello, Mr. Miller.” He nodded slightly. “It’s kind of you both to visit my studio. If you wish, look at my paintings. When you’re finished, you can tell me about the portraits you want done.”
“Your talent is obvious,” Jack said. “May we sit over there?” He pointed toward a small couch and chair near the window.
Flood rushed ahead to remove two blank canvases from the couch and an open box of paints that sat on the small table; the box’s loose flaps extending like ears listening in four directions.
“I have some sodas in the back. Would either of you like one?”
“Our names are not Miller, Mr. Flood,” Jack began, ignoring the invitation. “This is Nora Burke. My name is Jack McCall. We’re from McCall Investigations in Washington, D.C.”
Flood’s body sagged, and his face spoke confusion.
“You painted copies of four presidents from the originals that hung in the National Portrait Gallery. Your paintings have been swapped for those originals.”
“Good Lord.” Flood’s eyes, rimmed by concentric wrinkles, flitted from Jack to Nora, then back to Jack. The artist put his hands to his face and mumbled through his fingers. “I didn’t know. Maybe I suspected some at first … Maybe I didn’t want to know.” He lowered his hands. “No. I did not know. I’ve had opportunities, plenty. I could have been wealthy.” He gestured around. “Instead I live alone, an obscure painter, painting to live because I live to paint. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. But I’m a copyist, not a forger.”
He sagged deeper into the chair, his hands again covering his face.
Nora pulled a little pointy paper cup free from the dispenser next to a large bottle of water and filled the cup. She touched Flood’s slumping shoulder; he took the cup and drank.