The Sandler Inquiry

by Noel Hynd

  He marked an hour at a Second Avenue bar. Then he exited the bar at three thirty and began walking toward Fifth Avenue and the park. The streets were reasonably quiet as he walked cross town.

  Twice, then a third time, he looked behind him. Always there was someone, al› out a block and a half away. He was at Seventy-third Street and Park Avenue when it dawned on him. He hadn't been released through goodness, kindness, or even chance.

  The detectives had seen him glancing at his watch. Figuring he was concerned about the time for a reason, they'd decided to let him lead them to Leslie. They were following him. Thomas had no idea how many there were. But he knew, since two deaths were already involved, there had to be several.

  He continued to walk uptown, stepping up his pace. He had twenty minutes to elude an entire squad of experienced detectives and get to the park. And with so few people on the street, he was that much easier to tail. If only he had Leslie's Experience, he thought.

  Leslie's experience? Of course!

  He led the pursuers farther northward, then toward Madison Avenue. Then he cut back toward Lexington, as if hoping to have thrown them. He led them to Seventy-eighth and Lexington where, halfway down the block, he saw the sign he wanted.

  READER AND ADVISER, MADAME DIANE. It was almost four A.M. but Madame Diane's lights were still on and her door was still open.

  The early-morning hours were ideal for those disturbed souls needing tea readings and advice.

  Thomas walked halfway down the block, then quickly cut into the gypsy's street-level door. He darted up the steps and through the corridor, receiving a surprised look from the Madame herself, who stepped into the hall and shouted at him.

  Then he heard footsteps on the stairs where he'd entered. His pursuers. Thomas was down one of the back stairways and out into an alley moments later, just as Madame Diane was asking the detectives if she could help them. No, she hadn't seen anyone, she told them, but if they cared to brew some tea, maybe…

  At the end of the alley, Thomas climbed over some abandoned wooden crates and over an iron gate which was closed at night. He jumped from the top of the gate onto the sidewalk, nearly skidding on an icy patch.

  But when he looked around, no one was anywhere in sight. He ran northward two blocks, then started in a half run toward Central Park.

  It was already ten past four. He hoped she'd still be waiting.

  Against every bit of good judgment he had, he wanted her to be there.

  He entered the park at East Eighty-first Street. He walked north- ward toward their chosen rendezvous point. He would have liked to walk slowly and cautiously, not knowing what else might be lurking in the shadows on even the coldest of nights. But he was already late.

  He neared his destination, the rock formation which was shrouded with shadows a few hundred feet from the Great Lawn.

  An ideal place for a covert meeting, yes. Equally serviceable for a murder. He imagined the headlines the next day.

  "MAN ESCAPES POLICE SURVEILLANCE, KILLED IN PARK

  "Would they say that a mugger had done it? (Like Mark Ryder?) Or would the mystery woman be suspected?

  Was he crazy? he wondered. Would his father have come here?

  Maybe he should have let the police follow him? Or had they anyway?

  No, he'd definitely lost them. Definitely.

  He neared the rock formation and squinted through the darkness.

  There was no sound, no movement. All he could see before him was his own breath, a ghostly cloud each time he exhaled. He tried to allow his eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness.

  He was staring straight at the rocks. Gradually they took shape through the shadows. He took a step closer and continued to stare.

  His eyes focused and he felt his heart jump for an instant.

  A human form. Dead? Alive? Male? Female? He took a step closer.

  "Tom?"

  He nearly jumped at the soft intonation of the voice-it was asif it called in hushed tones from a cemetery. But he recognized it.

  "Leslie," he said.

  "Thank God."

  "Are you all right?" she asked, implying that there'd be some surprise if he weren't.

  "Yeah. Fine. I've had a day, let me tell you," he said.

  "I have, too." ,I'm not surprised" he said.

  There was a pause. He stepped closer to her, standing just a few feet away now. She stepped to him and gave him an affectionate kiss.

  He said nothing, not knowing where to begin. She sensed his unease immediately.

  "Something is wrong" she said.

  He could see her face now, clearly enough to recognize her.

  "I'm afraid my client owes her counsel a lot of answers" he said.

  "Meaning?"

  "Jacobus'" he said.

  There was a hesitancy, then, "What about him?"

  "You should know," he said.

  "You killed him. Whoever you are."

  "Tom," she said, acting hurt but shocked.

  "What are-?"

  "No, no "he said, his voice rising, "no more of the double talk. No more of the deception. I want the truth out of you. For once. I'm still your attorney and I'm still on your side. But I'm tired of being the dumb sucker in the middle." "I've never lied to you," she said defensively.

  "Not true."

  "Why?" she retorted sharply.

  "It's not what you say, my dear," he said caustically.

  "It's what you don't say. Right now, for example. You still haven't denied shooting Jacobus " She didn't answer. She took one step a4ay in the darkness, making him squint to see her.

  "A nice little old man "he said.

  "Eccentric, maybe. Quarrelsome, at times. But you killed him, didn't you? Why?"

  "All right " she said, turning toward him.

  "Yes. I did. So what?"

  "So what? You shot him and you say

  "So what'?"

  "He was trying to kill you," she said.

  "He and some others "Oh, brother," he said with disbelief "Tell me a better one. Explain the man in the blue car."

  "You'll know eventually. Soon, in point of fact "Yes, sure," he said.

  "That's what I mean. You never lie completely, just omit the truth.

  The man at Grover's house a few mornings ago was the same man who was in the parking garage the night you disappeared. Correct?"

  "Correct " "And yet at Grover's you wouldn't even look at him, much less admit that you knew him. Correct?"

  "Correct again."

  "And you do know him. He's a… how shall I phrase it? An 'associate' of yours. He got you out of the parking garage. You were in his car. The trunk, I'd guess."

  "Very good'" she allowed.

  "And Peter Whiteside and George McAdam," he pressed.

  "They're alive, aren't they? As alive as you or I "Of course," she admitted.

  "Their names on the Avianca passenger list was a hoax. I've always known that."

  "Then why-?"

  "I didn't want you seeing them."

  "And the reason is that they could identify the real Leslie Mc- Adam," he suggested.

  "Correct?"

  She nodded.

  "What about the real Leslie?" he pursued.

  "Arthur Sandler's daughter. Dead or alive?" He waited. When she didn't answer, he thought he knew.

  "Dead?" he concluded.

  "Right?"

  She took a step or two away again. His attention was riveted upon her.

  He half expected her to make a run through the darkness. Or pull a weapon.

  "Well?" he said.

  "I came here for answers. Before I do one more thing for you, I want answers. And you know where you can start?

  With your identity. I want to know who you are and what you want."

  "You'll know soon enough," she said, turning again.

  "Men?"

  "Soon," was the calculated reply. But the voice was not Leslie's. It was a man's voice and came from behind Thomas.

  "
Now, in fact' The accent was American. Thomas Daniels spun around in terror, his vision clouded by his own breath.

  But he could see well enough to discern the features of the man before him. The man from the parking garage, from the blue car, from Grover's front porch. The man was standing fifteen feet away and holding out before him the unmistakable form of a pistol, a long-nosed weapon with a thin mean-looking barrel which strongly suggested the presence of a silencer.

  "Please," said Paul Hammond, hesitantly and mustering courage.

  "No heroics."

  Thomas looked at the two of them, bitterly and with exhaustion.

  He was freezing. He'd been awake for twenty hours. He was too tired and cold for heroics.

  "Damn you both" he said bitterly. He looked at Leslie, the most fascinating woman he'd ever met.

  "Damn you in particular," he cursed. How could he maneuver her now?

  "It's all been necessary," she said. That soothingly sweet voice again, the cultivated accent of royalty.

  "If you've been frightened or inconvenienced, I'm truly sorry."

  "Inconvenienced?" He looked at the form of the gun.

  "And you're 'sorry'?" He looked back and forth again.

  "If you're so damned sorry, why did you bring me here?"

  "Because, Mr. Daniels," said the gunman, 'your time has come."

  Leslie spoke next.

  "You're going to disappear," she said sweetly but authoritatively.

  "And I assure you, no one will ever find you."

  Part Seven

  Chapter 31

  Shassad grabbed the telephone impatiently as it jangled on his desk. An amateur like Thomas Daniels, lawyer no less, had managed to slip away from a professional surveillance team. Shassad was sore. Genuinely angry. It not only confirmed that Daniels was every bit as shifty as Shassad had thought, but also that the Department was promoting imbeciles to the rank of Detective. Daniels had now been missing for two days.

  "Sergeant Shassad?" asked the exuberant voice on the line.

  "De-tec-tive?" Shassad grumbled, already recognizing the caller.

  "What is it now, Gary?"

  "This is your favorite Keeper of Kadavers said Gary Dedmarsh, speaking by reason of vocation and avocation, and buoyant enough to refer to himself by the title he'd newly self-bestowed.

  "Guess what I've got for you."

  "For Christ's sake, Gary," implored Shassad,

  "I'm not in the mood for games. What do you want?"

  "I've got a floater for you. Someone you knew."

  Shassad was silent for a moment, looking absently up at a clock, rubbing his chin and wondering who the hell had been fished out of the water.

  "A pair of kids were playing on the waterfront near West Houston Street" explained Gary excitedly, 'when they saw this hunk floating in the Hudson. Well, the hunk was a male in his early thirties, maybe, and he'd been floating for about thirty hours " Gary, knowing how to deliver a punch line, paused before adding, "The floater had a piece of paper with your name and telephone on it. I was wondering, Sergeant, if you wanted to come down and give him a peek?" Another pause and then,

  "He's all puffed up and waterlogged, but the features are intact and-' "Save it, Gary," said Shassad.

  "We'll be down "Jesus, what a perverse kid, Shassad thought, setting down the telephone. There ought to be a law.

  Shassad left Hearn at the precinct and drove down to the Thirtieth Street morgue. Gary was seated at a desk, waiting for him feet up and reading a racing newspaper.

  "Got here fast, Sargel" said Gary, genuinely marveling.

  "Must have been afraid he'd float out of here again before you got to view him. Want a look?"

  "I didn't come for the conversation," said Shassad.

  "Where is it?"

  For some reason Shassad always referred to corpses by the indefinite pronoun.

  Gary Dedmarsh had a cute act of forgetfulness, reserved for such occasions.

  "Let's see now," he asked.

  "Where'd I put him? Where'd he go?"

  Shassad grimaced as if to say, Come on Gary, I'm not in the mood for comedy. He wasn't. Gary led him into a colder room, then down a corridor where the refrigerated drawers were kept. He looked for the proper number.

  "Took a bullet right there," offered Gary, as if trying to interest Shassad in an attractive piece of merchandise.

  "Must have been high caliber. Made a real mess. Right in the center of the chest.

  Then after it had floated long enough, it all puffed up and-' "Just show it to me, just show it to me!" Shassad snapped, already envisioning the bloated features of the missing attorney.

  Gary glanced at the detective. Hurt was on his face.

  "Jeez," he said slowly,

  "I didn't know you was in a bad mood."

  "Just show it to me" "I won't say nothin'."

  Gary unlocked the small door in the wall, pulled out a second panel, and pulled out the long slab. He unzipped the plastic bag.

  On the flat board rested the puffy remains of a human body. Male, early thirties, just as Gary Dedmarsh had advertised.

  Shassad looked into the swollen white face. He blanched slightly.

  It was not the face he'd expected, not at all the features of Thomas Daniels.

  "You looked surprised," said Gary soberly.

  "I am…I know him?"

  "I recognize him," said Shassad.

  "He was a guard at a Romanian film company on Varick Street. I met him once. He caught me prowling around his building. I had to give him my card and number." Gary looked at the detective, then back to the corpse, trying to decide whether there was significance to what Shassad said. He found none.

  For his part, Shassad was completely silent, clearly envisioning Thomas Daniels, but not even wishing to utter the missing attorney's name.

  Chapter 32

  "So you see, Daniels," Hammond said drily and without a smile, explaining for the sixth time, 'if we hadn't assumed the guardian angel role you'd probably be dead right now. Throat cut.

  Drowned.

  Strangled," Hammond suggested as if the method made little difference.

  "Maybe even shot, unoriginal as that is. Coffee? You look like you could use it."

  Thomas raised his hand, squinting uncomfortably through reddish eyes, and shook his head to say no. His nerves were frayed and his patience was wearing thin. He'd been taken quickly from the Park to a small Federally financed apartment on East Ninety-second Street. He'd seen the sun rise twice and set twice. Now it was evening again. Leslie sat on a nearby sofa and watched Daniels and the U.S. Treasury agent.

  There were circles beneath her eyes, too.

  "You don't have to drink the coffee, you know," Hammond persisted, again without a smile.

  "We could give it to you intravenously.

  Are you certain you won't have some?"

  "I'm sure, damn it snapped Thomas.

  "I'm also sure that I want to get out of here " Hammond sighed, shaking his head and making a tsking sound with his tongue.

  "Lawyers'" he muttered with earnest dismay.

  "Always asking the impossible. Never considering how things really work in the flesh-and-blood, kill-and-be-killed real world. Well, if you won't join me…"

  His voice trailed off. He poured a tin saucepan's worth of lukewarm water into a cup where he'd already piled three teaspoons of instant coffee. He added saccharine, then a powdered reamer.

  He sipped, he winced.

  Leslie looked away, gagging and almost able to taste it herself.

  "I've been a coffee drinker all my life," announced Hammond.

  "And I can't understand why."

  Thomas didn't completely understand, either, but it had nothing to do with the coffee. They had made him 'disappear," but had given only a sketchy explanation why. He was well treated, but a prisoner. Not under arrest exactly, but sequestered. For the time being, as Hammond put it. William Ward Daniels's son was being "protected He was ow
ed an explanation; the debit remained outstanding.

  "Protected from what? From whom?" Thomas had asked repeatedly during his first day in captivity.

  "Give me specifics. Facts. And tell me how long you're keeping me here."

  "For as long as necessary," was Hammond's unyielding reply, as if the answer were obvious. Two armed guards in the next room, which served as a living room, enforced Hammond's case. And once he'd uttered in disgust, while pointing, to Leslie,

  "Look. How many times does she have to save your life? There are people out there who don't like you. They want to hurt you. Hurt you so badly that you pass away. Get it now?" Hammond appeared tired, drawn, and badly unnerved. A career man experienced in sensitive situations, he was now driving himself all the harder, trying to compensate for his age and the inner fear that he was slipping.

  Thomas had to look at Leslie, who appeared bored, then back to Hammond.

  "So how long is that? "he persisted.

  "Until" said Hammond confidently, "the trash is completely collected "Grover?" Thomas cocked his head.

  Hammond scoffed.

  "That wop is past history," he said.

  "Retired."

  Retired like I'd like to be, the Treasury agent thought idly.

  That's what you think, Thomas reasoned silently. But he said nothing.

  Hammond continued.

  "New men. Able men. They're getting rid of the garbage. I'll let you know when it's safe " Toward evening, Hammond had been willing to expand slightly.

  "It's a counterfeiting ring" he'd said.

  "Run by foreigners. Their assassins tried to kill you and sliced up some other poor bastard instead. They tried again in an art gallery-"

  "And again on the steamship from Nantucket" Leslie reminded him.

  "How's your throat feel?"

  "A little dry," Thomas conceded.

  "Then.. " Expansively and with a midwestern smile, Hammond motioned toward the jar of instant coffee. Thomas winced.

  Hammond lost his smile.

  "Lucky you have a throat left at all," Hammond mumbled. If it weren't for us, you wouldn't' ' "You're using me for your own reasons," retorted Thomas.