by David Bishop
“Are you going to catch this bastard?” The widow blushed. “I apologize for that word.”
“I’d’ve used a stronger word,” said Nora.
“We’ll catch the bastard,” Jack answered. “No guarantee, but we expect to. You need to treat what we’ve told you like a national security secret.”
“I understand.”
“This study is a grand room.” Jack got up and wandered over to look at an array of framed credentials and awards. “Chris’s accomplishments as a psychiatrist are quite impressive.”
“Thank you. I was very proud … I still am proud. I never spend much time in this study. Now I sit here a lot.” She ran her hands along the yellow padded arm rests of the Madison chair she had chosen to sit in. “This was his room.” She looked at the urn on the mantle. “I believe he is pleased I chose it as his final place of rest. Do not think me silly, but I believe his spirit is still in this room. That belief gives me comfort.”
Jack stepped to the side wall and looked at a collage of pictures of Chris and Sarah with Donny at various ages over the years. The other pictures featured Chris with Chief Mandrake, Mayor Molloy, and Arthur Tyson playing poker, golfing, fishing, and barbequing. A few others were of Chris at professional conferences with others from his profession.
“He had a nice group of friends along with a great wife and a son. He died a wealthy man.”
Sarah smiled wistfully. “I like to think of him that way. As you see, there are a lot of pictures. That is why I didn’t need the ones from his office. Please, again accept my apology for speaking harshly when you were thoughtful enough to offer to bring them to me.”
“I’ve forgotten all about that, so why don’t you.”
“Who’s this fellow here?” Nora asked, pointing to a man in a photo at a barbeque in the Andujar backyard.
“That’s Father Timothy Michaels, our priest for many years. Some years ago he transferred to Boston and was shot dead a short time later. They never caught the man.”
“Man?” Jack repeated. “How did they confirm the shooter was a man?”
“I just assumed, I guess. I do not associate ladies with acts of violence. Father Tim was a fine priest. It can be a sad world when these things happen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nora said. “But there’s a lot of good out there as well.”
“And the media spends far too little time on the good,” Sarah said.
“Amen to that,” Nora added, by now also looking at the pictures. “There’s Dr. Radnor. We met with him.”
“Most of them have been Chris’s friends since they were teens. My husband loved them all, called them his rogues’ gallery.” She frowned as she pointed at a familiar face. “That Arthur Tyson is a coarse man. I never really cared for him, but my husband felt he kept the others from getting stuffy. My Christopher always saw the good in everyone.”
“What are these flowers?” Nora asked. “They have such a deep red outside color with vibrant yellow centers.”
Sarah joined Nora at the plant stand near the hall door. “That’s a trumpet honeysuckle. They are graceful flowers. The yellow matches the fabric on the chair I sat in. I buy them in the plaza as a cut flower whenever I tire of the varieties I grow. They have a long vase life—even longer if you put a penny in the water.”
Jack took advantage of their position near the door. “Sarah, we need to be going. When we’re finished, we’ll bring out a final report and go over it with you.”
Sergeant Suggs called while Jack and Nora were driving back to the office.
“McCall, I just finished talking with the other dancers and some old walrus over at Donny’s Club; the girls called her Gypsy. You were right. Rockton was a bouncer there, and like you said, he had the hots for Phoebe Ziegler. The girls say she wouldn’t give him a tumble. Looks like he decided to take what he wanted. I also found out that Ms. Ziegler had for several months been seeing a man this Gypsy described as a distinguished middle-aged nerd. If the girls knew his name, they wouldn’t give it up, but I’ve got a solid description. The guy has since stopped coming in. You got any idea who that might be?”
Jack paused long enough for Suggs to come on the prod. “Are you holding out on me, McCall?”
“Where are you, Sergeant?”
“I’m a coupla miles from the ROC on Indiana. After I turn in my report, my next stop is home to have a beer and watch a movie in bed—anything but a detective story—and then my first good night’s sleep this week. You got any objection?”
“Sergeant, I’m afraid you won’t be watching that movie. Nora and I will meet you at the Regional Command Center in less than an hour. If our hunch is right, we’ll bring you the middle-aged nerd.”
Jack made a U-turn and headed for the home of Randolph Harkin.
At the moment the police had no reason to link the death of Christopher Andujar with the killing of Donny Andujar’s lap dancer Phoebe Ziegler, but he could not hold off Suggs any longer. Jack also realized that once Suggs began to grill Randolph Harkin that he would learn about the art heist at the National Portrait Gallery. And he already knew that Phoebe had been employed by Chris Andujar’s son.
By the time Jack arrived at Harkin’s home he had decided how he would wall off Harkin and the art heist from the death of Christopher Andujar. Jack would tell Sergeant Suggs that he and Nora had met Phoebe while visiting Donny Andujar as part of helping Sarah Andujar, and that Phoebe had invited them to see her sculpting work. While at Phoebe’s home, they cautioned her about the potential problems of her activities at Donny’s club. That after Phoebe told them about her relationship with Harkin, they had gone to see Harkin to ask that he discontinue his association with Phoebe.
Suggs would begin by interrogating Harkin and, in no time, Harkin would be talking about how tapes of him with Phoebe were used to gain his help in an art swap at the National Portrait Gallery. But Harkin had no knowledge of Chris Andujar, so his confession to Suggs would not draw in Chris’s death and Jack’s belief that Chris had also been blackmailed. That should allow Suggs to learn about the art heist while being kept in the dark about the blackmailing of Christopher Andujar.
Forty minutes later, Jack and Nora delivered Randolph Harkin to Suggs at Metro’s Major Case Squad ROC where over the next couple of hours, things played out just as Jack had expected they would. Jack and Nora also gave Suggs separate written statements covering their visits with Harkin and with Herman Flood, the painter of what became the forgeries.
Harkin would at least be charged with grand larceny for the theft of the four presidential portraits. “I'll need to ask Chief Mandrake,” Suggs said, “whether this is a local or federal beef, given the paintings were stolen from the National Portrait Gallery and them being pitchers of the presidents and all.”
Chapter 43
“Still no pictures at your place?” Jack asked as soon as he saw Nora the next morning.
“I checked before leaving home.” Nora shook her head. “Maybe the guy’s taken the money he’s gotten already and headed for the border?”
“Maybe he’s had a heart attack,” Jack said, “or been hit by a bus or found Jesus, but absent those possibilities he hasn’t pulled the plug.”
“Not without Candy Robson’s million, you mean.”
Jack nodded. “If he doesn’t come for your black bag, we’ll know something big has happened. Until then, the game’s on. We play it out.”
Max came in and made two cups of hot spiced tea. “I hope the saints will forgive an Irishman for drinking tea. Mary Lou fixed me one of these yesterday and I’m hooked. I’ll be with ya in a jiffy. I wanna take one of these up to her.”
Jack had asked Max to come in so he could keep the retired homicide cop connected to the big picture. After bringing him current on the copyist Herman Flood and the arrest of Curator Harkin, he asked Max what he could add to Nora’s recollections about the death of Mary Lou’s daddy.
“Nothing, but I got an observation.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Jack and Nora nodded their agreement.
Thirty minutes later they still had nothing fresh. Nora and Max left.
Jack stood next to the window, his mind drifting to Rachel and thoughts of apologizing for being unfaithful, but instead he felt a sense of relief wash over him. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew Rachel had released him from his grief.
Mary Lou snapped him back to the here-and-now when she buzzed. “My uncle called. He’s on his way up. He wants to take me to lunch. Do you need me for anything before we leave?”
“Let me chat with your uncle for a minute before you go. Tell me when he arrives.”
“He just walked in. I’ve already shooed him toward your office.”
Mandrake leaned into Jack’s office. “I’m told you wanted to talk with me?”
“Hi, Chief. Can you give me a couple of minutes before you two go to lunch?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the jurisdiction on the Harkin arrest?”
The chief unbuttoned his coat and took a seat. “The FBI is assisting, but it’s a local beef.”
“What are you going to do with Harkin? He’s no real crook. A rush of hormones dragged him into something he had no idea how to handle.”
“After discussions with the Smithsonian and the FBI, we decided to continue working Harkin the way you set it up. I authorized no arrest record and a paperless release to keep it away from the media. Harkin agreed to continue as if nothing has happened. It stretches the rules, but if he was going to skip he’d already be gone. Like you, we came down on the side of trying to recover the portraits. We’re keeping him under surveillance.”
“This whole case has been weird,” Jack said. “I need to tell you something else because I don’t wish to give the impression we’re holding back anything your department should know.”
The chief took off his cap and waited for Jack to speak.
“We’ve located Carl Anson and Joan Jensen, two federal fugitives suspected in the burglary and destruction of a National Guard Armory in the seventies.”
“Why you telling me and not the Feds?”
“A valid question, Chief, they are federal fugitives. At the same time, they could be connected to your Haviland murder investigation. I tripped over them while looking into Chris’s death.”
Mandrake sat down and rested his cap on his knee. “Have you got anything that supports your belief that Chris didn’t commit suicide?”
“No. We believe Sergeant Suggs is right on that. Chris committed suicide. However, we think Sarah is right that, at least in part, he took his own life because he was being blackmailed.”
Mandrake shook his head. “I can’t agree. I think that’s all part of Sarah’s denial. You got anything solid?” He absentmindedly ran a finger across his bushy eyebrows which appeared to have been recently trimmed.
“There’s the money that Sarah claimed Chris had in their bank box. Then again, Sarah found the box empty, and she had never actually seen the money.”
“That’s not much,” the chief said. “I’ve known Chris since we were kids. I can’t imagine there being anything in his life that could rise to the level of blackmail material.” He grinned. “We called him the town square.”
“We haven’t told Sarah, but we’re sure Chris had come to realize his gayness. Is that a word? Maybe I should have said bisexualness. Then I’m not so sure that’s a word either.”
The chief looked up and chuckled, then reached out and squared the paper napkin in front of him along the straight edge of the small table sitting in front of Jack’s desk.
“Even if Chris was gay, and I doubt that, it doesn’t prove he was blackmailed. And I wouldn’t mention that to Sarah. She’s turn-of-the-century. It would crush her.”
Jack nodded. “There’s more, all circumstantial. Our security expert found markings that suggest a recording device had been mounted in Chris’s office. The janitor service for his building is the one for which Benny Haviland worked as a supervisor. Haviland frequently shampooed the carpets at Donny Andujar’s club, where the pictures were taken of Harkin and Phoebe Ziegler. That service is owned by Alan and Gladys Clark, the aliases for Carl Anson and Joan Jensen. All these overlays can’t be coincidental.”
The chief raised his brows. “Whoa, big fella. You got a lot hooked to that caboose. Circumstantial evidence can get very persuasive when you string enough of it together. But you’ve told me nothing the district attorney could use to indict anyone beyond the stolen portraits and nothing that ties to Chris’s death. You got any physical evidence other than scratches where you say some surveillance equipment had been positioned, without knowing by whom?”
“Not a thing. I just wanted to bring you current seeing that some of this is on the edge of your department’s investigation of the Haviland murder.”
“I appreciate it. Anything else?”
“No. The Clarks are aware I know they’re Anson and Jensen. I’ll have them surrender to the Bureau within the next couple of days.”
“Be careful, Jack. Unlike curator Harkin, those two know how to run and hide. If they do, the Feds could see you as an accessory for not having turned them in.” He again finger-combed his eyebrows using both hands on both brows. “And I know now, so that also applies to me. How long you figuring to wait?”
“You’re right. I’ll do it tomorrow morning, here at my office. I’ll set it up with the Bureau. Thanks for helping me talk it through. Enjoy your lunch with Mary Lou. By the way, you were right we’re very pleased with her work and her personality.”
The chief smiled. “She’s a sweetheart, no doubt about that. Give my thanks to Max Logan. Mary Lou told me what he did. She’s very taken with Max. So, what comes next?”
“We’re going to see someone soon who we think will open another door. I’ll get with you after it plays out.”
Chapter 44
Jack and Nora turned up a private cement driveway, stopping near a high iron gate. He rolled his window down and spoke to a gardener trimming a pyrachantha that grew off to one side, its orange-red berries dotting every branch.
“I’d like to see Dean Trowbridge.”
“He’s in a rotten mood, Mister,” the gardener said. “If I was you, I’d come back later.”
“Most people are in a bad mood when I’m with ‘em.”
“You an undertaker?” A gold tooth peeked out from inside the gardener’s smile.
Jack laughed. “No. He’s expecting me, though.”
“Pull up to that there post.” He pointed. “And hit the button on the box. They’ll answer from up on the hill.”
Jack moved forward and engaged the speaker. “Jack McCall and Nora Burke. We have a meeting with Mr. Trowbridge.”
“You’re expected,” the box replied. “Are you and Ms Burke alone?”
“Yes.”
The gate divided in the center and quietly rolled to each side of a paver driveway bordered by precisely trimmed, knee-high hedges backed by large trees with landscape lights set into the crotch of the lowest major branch of each tree.
Jack had convinced Trowbridge to let them talk with his daughter. Allison was an adult, but Jack wanted to avoid the risk her father might convince her to clam up. The two men had agreed the meeting would be at Trowbridge’s home with him present, and that Nora could come after Jack suggested Allison might be more comfortable with another woman in the room.
As they neared the top of the hill, Nora pointed out a five-car garage topped by what appeared to be servants’ quarters. Jack entered a circular drive, stopping under a high roof supported by four stone pillars. Two steps of matching stone led to a slate-floored portico and an oversized wood door inset with stained glass.
A well-dressed young man with a roman nose opened the car door on Nora’s side. “Good afternoon, Ms.
Burke,” he said, then stooped and looked over at Jack. “Leave your car, Mr. McCall. I’ll have it parked.”
Nora got out.
“I prefer to park myself,” Jack told the young attendant, “and keep my keys.”
The man pointed toward an open parking area just beyond the circle. “Over there, Mr. McCall, with your hood to the low wall, please.”
Jack parked where the young man had pointed. Over the landscape wall he saw a large swimming pool. The lotion on three young women in small bathing suits glistened in the sun. A much older man, with a deeply tanned body bisected by a tiny white Speedo, stood among the ladies. A second man silently floated in the pool, his belly bobbing above the water.
A dainty front door buzzer produced a deep gong. A moment later the door opened in the hand of a nondescript houseman wearing dark slacks with a polo shirt inscribed The House of Trowbridge. The height of the doorstep brought the houseman’s forehead to Jack’s chin. He stepped inside and found Nora adorning the end of a fainting chair in the entrance hall.
“Mr. Trowbridge wishes for you and Ms. Burke to join him in his study,” the houseman said, “this way, please.” He led them through a large arch and down a wide hallway to a set of double doors crowned with an alabaster chambranle. He knocked, opened both doors and stepped back, adding a slight bow.
The large study was rimmed with floor-to-ceiling bookcases fronted by a sliding ladder. Trowbridge looked up from behind a mahogany desk with an inset leather writing surface. The hard corners of the desk were softened by three books standing upright between two black elephant bookends studded with authentic ivory tusks. Trowbridge, his fingernails buffed to a shine, took a long draw on a cigarette, tilted his head back and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Mr. McCall.”
Trowbridge stubbed out his cigarette, picked up a large-bowled, pre lit pipe and, after a few masturbatory strokes along its hard shaft, put it in his mouth. Next, he poured two fingers of liquor, scotch according to the little pewter tag on the decanter, he held it up to the light, swirled it, and sipped. “Ahhhhhhhh.” His voice a rasp file scaring old wood.