“So they wired me and I went in, in return for immunity, and I nailed a lotta guys, guys I knew and liked and had depended on for my life more times than I could count … I nailed ’em, Slats. It takes a helluva lot of ego to betray people that close to you—”
“But you did what you knew was right,” she protested.
“That’s a matter of opinion, once you get into questions about where your loyalties lie. I wasn’t a white knight. I was reinforcing my ego. It’s always ego. Ego makes the saint what he is, makes the villain what he is, makes the traitor what he is … made me what I am.”
“I like what you are,” she murmured, felt him stroke her hair.
“Which brings us to my eye.”
“You don’t have to tell me, if it bothers you—”
“Takes more than that to bother me. When I had two eyes, I was just another guy. With the eye patch I got charisma. It was a miracle. Drove chicks wild, it was worth it.” He laughed darkly. She could feel it move her hair.
“So tough,” she said softly, “such a macho man.”
“Well, here’s what happened. Somewhere along the line, deep in the belly of Internal Affairs, somebody high up leaked word of what I was doing, let ’em know the fit was about to hit the shan if I got before the grand jury. Well, a couple of the lads—not guys I knew—had a talk with me one night. They were not your average Rhodes scholars, they didn’t quite know what they were doing, gettin’ down and dirty with the boss. I killed one of them with a brick wall, put the other one in the hospital for a year or so. But in the course of our discussion I wound up with one eye hanging down my cheek, four broken ribs, a skull fracture, a broken leg, damn near a broken back. Easy come, easy go, right?
“About forty cops went down on my testimony, including my old partner, the guy who broke me in. I remember one time he said to me, ‘Pete, Serpico’s one thing. Nobody really holds all that shit against Frank. He was never one of us, he had a beard for chrissake, and in those days the only guys with beards were the ones throwing rocks at cops. Serpico was never one of us, so what he did, well, what would you expect from an asshole with a beard? But you, Pete, you were one of us, none better than Pete Greco, and you took us down … you’re the guy none of us will ever forget or forgive. Too bad the lads didn’t kill you, Pete, too damn bad.’
“So ego cost me that eye. And now what do I do? I got plenty of money, but I love to hustle a little pool, play the ponies. I’m a hustler … and what’s that? It’s all ego, my dear. And that’s why I’m in this thing with you, Slats. I can’t resist. It’s another chance to prove I can handle any damn thing…”
She was asleep.
“Good night, Ed,” he said into the darkness.
He leaned over and very gently kissed Celia, felt her smile. He closed his eye and in a minute or two, with the sound of the rain lulling him, he was fast asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
HILARY SAMPSON WOKE THEM at eight with a telephone call. She’d be over for breakfast in half an hour, and that was that. Snap to it, she’d be on her way to work. Celia didn’t get a chance to say much of anything. Hilary was on one of her efficiency kicks and was running by the clock.
Celia was in and out of the shower in five minutes, dressed in another five. Jeans, a gingham checked red-and-white blouse, beaten-up white Top-Siders she’d worn for ten years. By the time she’d come back and headed for the kitchen counter, Greco had opened the door to the deck and was stretching, groaning, taking deep lungsful of the heavy gray mist hanging in the courtyard trees.
“Your turn,” she said, getting out the carton of Tropicana orange juice. “Hilary’s on her way over. You’d better hop to it. Clean towels are on the rack next to the tub. You take orange juice?”
“Sure, sure,” he muttered. He moved slowly across the room, scratching his head, shuffling. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said over his shoulder. “Age tends to show first thing in the morning. In my case, all forty-five years. I get better as the morning goes on.”
Celia split several bagels and toasted them, wondering about Peter Greco. She’d slept—actually slept—with him last night, and she’d felt so comforted and protected and so … what? So happy he was there? Hmmm. She found lox, cream cheese, strawberry jam, butter. She put the works on a tray, which she carted over to the pool table. She went back to the counter, ground Gillies coffee beans and got the coffee brewing. Why had she been so happy? He hadn’t done anything—in fact, he was the one who needed protection, with his head practically in pieces. But there was something about him. Hmmm. Maybe it was the ego thing he’d been talking about while she slowly let herself drift off to sleep. Maybe the sheer ego of his contention that he could handle anything had fortified her feeling of well-being… Hmmm.
She was perched at the table finishing her juice when Hilary arrived, threw down a voluminous leather shoulder bag, looked at breakfast, and said: “You think this is enough for the two of us?” She shook her head, the red hair snapping. “Or were you expecting maybe the Mormon Tabernacle Choir?”
“Well, the fact is—”
“I’m the one with the facts,” Hilary interrupted. She took a sheet of notes from the pocket of her raincoat and drained a glass of juice. “You left your shower running.”
“Oh, no, that’s—”
“Okay, so, let’s get down to cases here. I was up at the Times until one o’clock this morning, finding out about this Bassinetti bunch and,” she announced proudly, “I’m going to knock your socks off for you. First, where’s the murder letter?”
“Ah. I hid it.”
“Well, come on, get it. What’s the matter with you, anyway? You look sort of glassy-eyed—”
“I was up late too.” Celia turned to Ed and unlocked the cage. Ed gave her a discouraged look and backed away along the perch. An unwarranted intrusion. “Excuse me, Eddie boy.” She lifted the newspaper in the bottom of his cage, felt around, and withdrew the murder letter. Hilary was staring at her, bemused. “Best hiding place I could find,” Celia said. “Ah, here it is.” She spread it flat on the table.
“Hi, Hilary.”
Hilary frowned, spun around and saw Peter Greco. He was standing in the hallway, his face covered in shaving cream. “Lucky you had some of this stuff, Slats. I’m gonna have to use your cute little razor, okay?”
“Be my guest. You are my guest.”
Greco went away. Hilary turned back to Celia, a smile slowly spreading across her freckled face. “You devil,” she whispered. “You cunning devil! I mean, so fast! But you heard what I said, I was right—you do like him!” She grinned her battle-of-the-sexes grin at Celia.
“It’s not what you think—”
“Of course not. I always say if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, chances are it’s a duck. I knew you’d like him, he’s not a run of the mill guy—”
“Hilary! He almost got killed last night working on my case—”
“Ha! I’ll bet! You’ve got to be gentle—”
“Mrs. Bassinetti killed a man last night and Peter showed up and somebody broke his head open, knocked him out, and he came here practically ready to collapse … and then I told him about Ed biting off Cunningham’s ear—”
“Whoa! I think I’ve missed most of this story. Just what’s been going on since last we convened?” Hilary started piling cream cheese and lox on one of the toasted bagels.
By the time Celia had summarized the previous day, Greco had reappeared, looking reasonably chipper for a man who’d survived one very arduous day.
“My head still hurts like a pisser, I must admit,” he observed in his favorite classical style, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Hilary just stared, chewing.
By the time they were all munching away, and Ed was looking hungry and more than a little peevish since he coveted lox, Hilary got to the results of her researches. It had taken a good bit of digging, which was what Hilary, fortunately, did best.
“In
the first place,” she said, pointing at the murder letter, item by item, “I’ve got your Director for you. Emilio Bassinetti, Director of the Palisades Center. He’s got to be the intended victim, right?”
“What’s the Palisades Center?” Celia asked.
“Sounds like a racquetball complex,” Greco said.
“The truth is a little murky, but on the surface it’s a very low profile, high intensity think tank, right across the Hudson in the Jersey Palisades. From what I could find out from reading between the lines and talking to some of the guys on the night shift, it’s chock full of political experts working out endless scenarios. You know the kind of thing—from planning to melt the polar ice caps to invading and annexing Central America to calculating the effects of meltdowns in nuclear power plants, particularly if we could make that happen in other countries’ plants. Get it?”
“Sure,” Greco said, “but do they know the only player who was active when Babe Ruth hit his last home run and when Hank Aaron hit his first?”
Hilary looked at him as if he were an unruly student. “I don’t know if they do, but I certainly do. It was one of the all-time great Cubs, Phil Cavaretta. Now could we get back to business, please? Or has the beating you took completely deranged you?”
Greco tried not to look surprised. “Sure, go ahead. How did she know that, Ed?”
“Research is my business. Now, the rumors at the Times have it that Palisades is in bed with the CIA, the FBI, and if not them, with the National Security Agency. In other words, tied in with the government in a big way. Right at the top levels. With a special interest these days in some of our friends south of the border … which could mean just about anything from exporting revolution to importing drugs.” She stopped to refill her coffee cup and grab another bagel.
“What about Bassinetti personally?” Celia was jotting down notes. Linda Thurston certainly would have. While she kept listening, her thoughts replayed the incredible events of the previous day. It was pure Linda Thurston, even down to spending the night in the arms of the wounded warrior.
“Strange guy. He was a professor at Duke, then at Georgetown, in political science. Specializing in Third World countries, or as they were known then, Emerging Nations. But that was quite a while ago, late sixties, early seventies. Then he dropped out of sight in Europe for several years. My people think he was probably working in intelligence for the United States. Then, about ten years ago, he married the present Mrs. Bassinetti, whose name—da-da, get this—is Zoe Madigan, the daughter of an American diplomat in London and a Spanish mother he’d married while serving in Madrid. She became the mystery novelist Miles Warriner shortly after she married Bassinetti. She’s in her late thirties, a knockout, but then you know that already. Sort of social too. At present they maintain homes in Manhattan, in the country in New Jersey, a flat in London, a ranch in Argentina. We’re talking very heavy money, folks.
“And, a final note of interest, the Director is a cripple. His horse threw him while he was riding with his wife a few years ago—he was already running Palisades—and he’s been in a wheelchair ever since. Can’t walk at all. Otherwise he’s in good health but has a weight problem. He lives mainly in the country in Jersey, his wife mainly in the city.”
Hilary took a deep breath and went back to eating.
“Amazing,” Celia said, awed by Hilary’s performance.
“I’d say so,” Hilary agreed.
Greco stood up, nodding his damaged head gingerly, and went to the bird cage, fixed Ed with his one-eyed stare. “Whattaya think, killer? Zoe, for God’s sake. So now we’ve got that big blank filled in. Zoe is Z. Zoe Bassinetti is behind the whole thing. She wants to off her crippled husband, get the money and four places to live, and she picked a halibut like Mr. Mystery to help her do it.” He shook his head in astonishment. “I’d be hesitant about putting my IBM stock on Charlie Cunningham’s chances for getting out of today alive. Zoe’s gonna kill the Prowler—that’s Charlie—right after he puts paid to poor old Emilio. I can see it now, the brave little wife, working her fingers to the bone in the west wing, whipping up her new book, hears a shot from Emilio’s study … hark! She thinks, could that be a vicious prowler who has just blown my poor crippled hubby’s head off? I’d better get my nifty little Smith and Wesson and go see… Egad, it is! Shriek, shriek, bang-bang, Mr. Mystery bites the dust and Zoe is free and rich.” He looked at the two women. “It’s simple, classic, I like it. Except it’s all screwed up now because we’ve got the letter … and if anyone knows she’s screwing Charlie, that would cast some doubt on her innocence. But,” he reasoned, arguing with himself, “she could say yes, I made a girlish mistake with this dashing fellow and I do have this impotent husband, sob, sob, but I saw the light, broke off my affair, and he came here in a rit of fealous jage to have it out with my husband, la-di-da-di-da. It could work ladies. Or it could have worked …” He nodded at the piece of paper on the tabletop. “If we hadn’t come up with this.”
“But what about the Rolls and the Trunk and the Clean getaway?” Hilary consulted the paper, rapping it with a finger.
“That’s easy,” Celia said. She was getting the hang of the game. “All that’s window dressing for Charlie’s benefit. He doesn’t know she’s going to kill him—so his getaway route is important to him. He’s got to think she has a great plan. Right, Peter?”
“That’s the way I see it. She has her real plan, and the plan she’s made up for Charlie Cunningham’s sake—”
“But what’s in it for Charlie?” Hilary asked.
“We’ve seen Mrs. Bassinetti,” Greco said.
“Sex? You mean Charlie’s in this ’cause he’s that crazy about her?”
“Hilary,” Celia said, sounding like an expert, “sex is the main cause of murder in the family.”
Greco came back to the table. “So tonight’s the night, Charlie shoots him right in the middle of Dan Rather. All we have to do is warn him.”
“Then why do you look so perplexed?”
“There’s funny stuff going on, that’s why. Like the guy Mrs. Bassinetti shot last night. Friborg. Where does he fit in? Every time we learn something, like Z is for Zoe, we get a new unknown. There’s something about Friborg … swear to God, I dreamed about him last night. I know him from somewhere, or I’ve heard his name, something. Irwin Friborg. I’m gonna have to make a call about him. And then there are the two men following Celia. Where did they come from?”
There was a long pause, which didn’t solve anything.
Celia finally said: “When you look at this one way, it’s really pretty crazy. I mean, the Director sounds like a scary and important guy because of his place in the intelligence community—but it seems like he’s a murder target for purely domestic reasons. If such a man were going to be murdered, you’d think it would have something to do with the kind of work he does. … Think how much he must know. Think how valuable he must be. But it’s his wife who’s planning to kill him—”
“One of life’s little ironies,” Hilary said. She finished her coffee, looked at her watch, and said she’d better be on her way.
“What I can’t figure out,” Celia continued, “is why the Director doesn’t have all kinds of bodyguards around him. You’d think his bosses, whoever they are, would have his life under a microscope. What if he sold secrets? Or defected to the Russians? You’d think they’d know all about his marriage and his wife having an affair. A man confined to a wheelchair with a beautiful wife, that sounds like a prescription for disaster. So where’s his protection? He’s a sitting duck and nobody but us seems to care—”
“We don’t know that,” Greco said. “He may be surrounded by guys from the Outfit. We just don’t know. We’re still in the dark about an awful lot of this, and it makes me nervous. And I keep thinking about Friborg…”
Celia got up and started loading the tray.
“So what are we waiting for? Let’s get the show on the road!”
Greco looked at her
and smiled. She didn’t know enough about stuff like this to know how easy it was just to lose your life before you even noticed it was going anywhere. She didn’t know enough to be scared. She wanted to save the World. Well, if not the World, at least the Director. Greco lit a cigarette and wondered if the Director was worth saving.
Chapter Eighteen
JESSE LEFFERTS SAT AT his desk in the Pegasus Building and stared at the gray smudge hanging like bad breath over the city. The wooden water tanks on rooftops were sodden and streaked with rain. He was exhausted, but there was enough adrenaline rushing around to fuel the National Football League.
Before him on the desk lay the briefcase with a newly broken lock and the forbidden manuscript Charlie Cunningham had entrusted to him for the interim before publication. He truly hadn’t intended to read it until Charlie gave him the go-ahead. He’d thought he’d go along with the letter of his instructions just to keep the whole thing kosher and in one piece.
But the midnight call from Charlie had cancelled all his obligations and good intentions. He’d lain there, slowly coming awake once Charlie had hung up, and reality had begun dawning. If people were getting killed, as Charlie said, then all bets were off. He was going to read the manuscript. First thing in the morning he’d cancel his meetings for the day, his lunch date, and devote all his attention to the manuscript.
He got up to get a drink, went back to bed, and realized there was no way he could get back to sleep. It was hopeless. He got back up and dressed quickly, with his heart beginning to race and his palms moistening. People getting killed? What the hell was in the pages in his office?
Eight hours later he turned the last page and his breath, which he felt he’d been holding the whole time, slowly escaped from a very dry mouth. He kept seeing little black dots and stars at the corners of his vision. Dead ahead was his coveted senior editorship. At last. And the publishing event of the decade. At least.
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