Rivetz stood up, saying, “Come with me, Cobb, I want the lieutenant to have a talk with you.”
“Am I under arrest?” I asked, just wanting to know.
“Want to be?”
I went with him. He took me in an unmarked car to Homicide South, and had me wait on a worn-out bench in a room painted a leprous apple green, while he went in to talk to the lieutenant. There were plenty of policemen around to keep an eye on me, in case I got desperate and decided to make a break for it.
I waited a lot longer than I thought I would, which was probably the whole idea, before I was finally sent for. I was led into the lieutenant’s office.
If anyone ever offers you a choice between luck and brains, take luck every time. I’d been calling on my brain, and it was doing nothing. Then luck greeted me in the form of Detective Lieutenant Cornelius U. Martin, Jr.
I was never so happy to see anyone in my life. I knew he was working Homicide, but I never figured he would get this case. There are too many lieutenants.
Even sitting down, he gave the impression of force, or maybe perseverance is a better word. He looked like a brown mountain, with curly white snow on top. He looked at me with his round, honest face, and said, “Matty, what have you gotten into now?”
Rivetz was incredulous. “You know this guy, Lieutenant?”
He not only knew me, he half raised me. Twenty-odd years ago, then-Patrolman Martin and his family moved in next door to us and busted our block. A lot of families moved away, but we couldn’t afford to, so my folks gritted their teeth and made the best of it.
The best of it turned out to be pretty good. The Martins were the best proof of something a lot of folks, black and white, never get to learn: people are just people. The Martins are the best people around. You never saw two friendlier families than the Cobbs and the Martins.
The lieutenant’s son, Cornelius U. Martin III, and I were inseparable as kids. You may remember us, we made a minor ripple in high school as the Corn-Cobb backcourt. Corny made All City, and of course you remember him in the NBA. He’s coaching at a college in the Midwest now.
If it had been Lieutenant Martin in the first place, I might have handled it differently. I might have told him everything, and asked his advice, but damn it, now I was on the record with that lie, and I was stuck with it. When I told my story again for the lieutenant, I told it the same way.
When I was finished, the lieutenant said, “I don’t believe you, Matty.”
4
“When it’s least expected, you’re elected ...”
—Theme song, “Candid Camera” (CBS)
MY VOICE HAS A tendency to crack at inopportune moments. “What?” I squeaked.
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you went to see a man in that dump just because he mentioned an old girl friend’s name. Your mama didn’t have any stupid children, Matty, and doing that would be very stupid.”
I started to sputter a reply, but he cut me off.
“Hold it, Matty. I’ve got some reports coming in I’ve only just glanced at. Suppose you wait outside for about twenty minutes while I look them over.” He looked me a warning. “Think about what the report might say, Matty.”
Rivetz took me outside. My paranoia quotient hit a new high. What the hell was he talking about? Why me? This was going to take more than some purple jelly beans. I got Rivetz to accompany me to a vending machine, where I bought two Reese cups and a Pay Day.
“You got a sweet tooth?” Rivetz asked, as though a sweet tooth were a sure symptom of homicidal mania.
“No, I’m a diabetic bent on suicide.”
“The time is coming,” he promised, “when you ain’t gonna think that’s too funny.” That was the end of conversation between us.
The lieutenant was very punctual. My watch made the elapsed time I’d been out of his office nineteen minutes and fifty-six seconds.
“Cigarette, Matty?” he offered as I sat down.
“You know I don’t smoke, Mr. M.,” I told him.
“That’s right. I forgot.” He lit one for himself, and blew a lungful in my direction. I couldn’t tell if he was aiming for me or Rivetz, because the Flatbush Flash was on me like white on rice. I think he was afraid I was going to pull a tommy gun out of my nose and blast my way out.
Lieutenant Martin asked if they could take my fingerprints. “For comparative purposes, of course,” he said. I knew he didn’t have to ask, and he knew that I knew. I wondered what he was up to.
“Sure, go right ahead,” I told him. I didn’t have to go anywhere, an expert was sent for.
When he was finished, the questions began again.
“You were very good friends with the Teobaldi woman, weren’t you, Cobb?” Rivetz included a leer with the question free of charge.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you go to bed with her?”
He was trying to get me ticked off, and doing an excellent job of it, too, but I was damned if I would let him see it.
“Occasionally,” I said.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“You haven’t seen her since? Why not?”
“She got married.”
“She’s been divorced. She’s been back in New York over six months.”
“So I heard.” I turned to the lieutenant. “What is he driving at?”
Lieutenant Martin looked grave. “According to Devlin, Charles Vincent wasn’t the dead man’s real name.”
“So?”
“He says his real name was Vincent Carlson.”
“Oh, Christ,” I said.
“And Vincent Carlson was the ex-husband of Monica Teobaldi.”
I always remember the next few moments as though they were a comic strip. Gulp! Gasp! Choke! Then I realized it would be hard to find a way to look guiltier, so I stopped goggling.
“Care to revise your story, Matty?” the lieutenant asked.
Should I? I decided not to. The news that the dead man used to be Monica’s husband was bad news for Matt Cobb, but I couldn’t see where it made any difference to the Network, and tying the Network into the mess wouldn’t make the facts go away. I told them no thanks.
The lieutenant said in that case, I wouldn’t mind signing a statement. I said I’d be delighted. A stenographer typed one up. I read it over and signed it, thereby adding perjury to all my other sins.
I was gambling with my future. The major portion of my job was to protect the Network. Whatever the connection between Walter Schick and the murder, I had committed myself to finding it and defusing it before it splattered all over the front pages. If I could pull it off, fine. If I blew it, I was through in the industry anyway, and jail is better than skid row. Cleaner, at least.
The lieutenant sent Rivetz out to check the movements of the dead man. Then he turned his big honest face on me, and my mind did a flashback to when he caught Corny and me in the cellar, giggling over a Playboy magazine. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Matty,” he said dolefully.
“Me too,” I said.
“I know you didn’t kill that man, Matty.”
“Thanks. But is that Mr. M. or Lieutenant Martin speaking?”
“Both. Hell, I’ve known you since you were six years old. But there’s evidence says you didn’t do it.”
I asked him what it was.
“You never mind. If it clears you, it might point to someone else. But your story is very, very cheesy, Matty. And Rivetz, well ...”
He didn’t finish, but I knew what he meant. Rivetz figured he’d walked into an easy collar. Homicide collars look good on the record. Rivetz hated the thought of it not being me. He wouldn’t try to frame me, exactly. It’s just that he’d view any evidence on the basis of whether it proved my guilt.
Lieutenant Martin shook a finger at me. “Just one thing, Matty. I’m your friend, but I’m still a cop. If you’re lying to me, I’ll put you in jail. You’re too old and too bi
g for me to go upside your head.”
I had to smile.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “I wouldn’t like to, but I will. It would be the same with Cornelius, too.”
“Nah,” I said. “You’d go upside his head, then put him in jail.”
He laughed. It made me feel a lot better. “Go on, get out of here. Do you want me to get you a ride home?”
“No thanks. I assume you’ve had somebody talk to Monica Teobaldi.”
“Yeah, she and her boyfriend went to the morgue with one of my men and identified the body. And she confirms that story of yours, for what it’s worth. You could have had it planned in advance.”
“That would take a very devious person,” I deadpanned.
“Yeah, well I know where to find one.” He scratched his head. “You know, no matter what squad I’m on, sooner or later I get a case with you in it. It looks bad when you all the time have to investigate the neighbors’ kid.”
“Just the nature of our jobs, I guess.”
“Then why don’t you get another job, be an English teacher, like you were supposed to.”
“Because I became addicted to money,” I said. “I need it in larger and larger doses every week.”
He laughed again.
I got serious. “You realize that I’m going to see Monica right after I leave here.”
“I figured you would,” he said quietly.
“Okay. I’m not skulking around about it. Tell the guy who’s going to be tailing me, that if he loses me, that’s where I’ll be. Tell the guy who has Monica staked out, too.”
He laughed. “You won’t see a tail on you, Matty,” he assured me. “But don’t leave New York State, okay?”
“Sure.” We shook hands, and I left.
The first thing I wanted was a telephone. There was a booth on the corner, but the vandal-proof phone had been ripped out and taken away. I could picture the triumphant inventor saying, “See? they couldn’t vandalize it!”
The second booth ate my dime. A police doctor had told me the lump on my head was nothing serious, but it still hurt. As my irritation increased, it started to throb. I took a deep breath, held it, and walked on.
The next booth had one of those “tone first” phones, where you can find out if the phone works before you invest your money. Congress should pass a bill making them universally mandatory.
I dropped my dime, and put through a call to the local station owned and operated by the Network.
“Newsroom.” The word was crisp and clear, and was said with just a touch of pardonable pride, just the way I used to say it.
“Jack Hansen, please.” Jack Hansen was an award-winning crime reporter; an ex-cop, who had better sources than the Mississippi River. The only thing wrong with him was that he had too much journalistic integrity. Special Projects had learned never to ask him to find out anything that would be embarrassing on the air.
“Jack Hansen.”
“Jack, this is Matt Cobb.”
“Oh, hi Matt. What can I do you for?”
“Hi. Listen, have you heard about that murder in the Hotel Cameron tonight?”
“Yeah, I just got in with the film crew, we’re cutting for the eleven o’clock news right now.”
I looked at my watch. “Don’t worry, you’ve got thirty-eight whole minutes. You do your best work under the gun, anyway.
“Jack, I need a favor. Dig a little deeper on this one. Check into this Vincent Carlson. Find out what the cops are thinking, and get back to me on it, okay?”
“Hmmm,” he said. “Is there a story in it?”
“Could be,” I admitted. “Of course, use whatever you dig up—”
“Goes without saying,” he murmured.
“—but if you sit on it awhile, I may be able to give you a big—a huge story later on.” I thought of something else. “Oh, by the way, Jack, who found the body?”
“Friend of the deceased. Cops haven’t released the name.”
God bless them, I thought.
“How soon do you want this, Matt?”
“As soon as possible. Call anytime, home or office. Don’t let me hear it on the air first, okay?”
He said it was okay.
About a hundred yards after I left the phone booth, a vague uneasiness crossed the synapse in my brain and became an actual perception. Each of my footsteps had a quiet echo. I had a tail. He was easy to spot, once I knew he was there, by checking the nighttime reflections in car windshields.
I was angry and hurt at Lieutenant Martin, until I remembered what he had said: “You won’t see a tail on you.” He wasn’t lying, he just underestimated my powers of observation. As it was, this guy was an unlikely candidate. He looked much too short to be a cop. Somebody should have told him about gumshoes. If his footsteps hadn’t stopped each time I tried a phone, I never would have picked him up.
I decided to shake him, both to teach the Lieutenant not to play word games with an English major, and to give Shorty a few pointers.
I walked at an even pace up to a litter basket at the corner, and threw away a candy wrapper I had in my pocket. Then I turned the corner and ran like the proverbial bat out of hell. I let him hear my shoes echo on the pavement. I wanted him to be running, too.
About halfway down the block, I ducked into the vestibule of a small apartment building. I stood behind the glass and watched him run by. He ran all the way to the corner, looked both ways, and headed uptown. I waited a decent interval to give him a chance to get a good lead, then followed his path for a while, until I flagged a cab to take me to Monica’s apartment.
5
“Return with us now, to those thrilling days of yesteryear ...”
—Fred Foy, “The Lone Ranger” (ABC)
THE LOBBY OF MONICA’S building had an intercom buzzer system, but I didn’t want to use it. It was possible she didn’t want to see me; either because she wasn’t alone, or because she had a secret to keep.
I used a burglar’s trick I had learned from Lieutenant Martin. I pushed a button at random, not Monica’s. When the voice came on to ask what I wanted, I said, “It’s about Joey.”
Everybody knows someone named Joey, and the odds are pretty good that out of a given group of people, someone will care enough for their particular Joey to get curious. It took eight tries, until a lady in 11G said, “What about Joey?”
“It’s about the bank,” I said, “it’s pretty complicated.”
“Oh, Lord!” The door clicked as it unlocked.
It always works. No matter how friendly banks say they are in commercials, people still hate and fear them. “It’s about Con Edison,” is a good variation, for the same reason. I felt a little sorry for Joey when 11G started asking him questions.
It was a beautiful building, with hallways done up in blue and gold, and a plush carpet of royal blue on the floor. If they’d sunk less money into decor and spent more for security, they could keep undesirables like me out of there.
I hesitated for a second before pressing Monica’s doorbell. I felt like one of those Mexican cliff divers looking down, trying to sort the water out from the rocks. I hit the doorbell. Chimes inside played the first four notes of “Nature Boy.” Nothing. I waited fifteen seconds, then tried my fist.
“Come on, not again!” It was a loud groan in a man’s voice, coming from inside. “Just a minute!”
A few seconds later, the door swung open and a muscular specimen with a red handlebar moustache said, “Honestly, can’t you leave her alone? She told you people before she hasn’t even seen her ex-husband since the summer.”
He was barefoot and bare-chested, and wearing canary yellow pants in between. He couldn’t have been as young as he looked, not and be dressed like that in Monica’s apartment. I decided he was twenty-two.
“Sorry,” I said officiously. “Routine.” If he wanted to think I was a cop, I certainly wasn’t going to disappoint him.
“Okay,” he said, “come on in. Just remember, we were tog
ether all evening. All day.”
I almost blew my own cover by recognizing aloud a print I’d given Monica a long time ago, a laughing clown. He didn’t seem as happy as I remembered.
I sat on a sofa in the living room, leaving a wicker chair for my friend. It must have been a real treat on his bare back, but he had too much grace to mention it, especially to a cop.
A bedroom door opened partially, and Monica’s head popped out. That beautiful tawny head. “I’ll be with you in a minute, offic—Matt!”
Judging by her face, worrying about her wanting to see me had been a waste of time. “I’ll be right with you. Talk to Tony for a minute.”
Without a word, Tony got up to make drinks.
“Bourbon and Seven-Up,” I said. I gave him a toothy grin. “Pleased to meet you, Tony.”
He brought me my drink. “Same here,” he said, reoccupying the wicker chair.
He had double-crossed me. He was being insidiously nice. I was dying to take out my doubts, fears, and frustrations on somebody (to say nothing of that clout on my head), and Tony was the right size and shape to make it interesting. He also had the air of the kind of macho freak that can be induced to take a swing without much trouble.
“Known Monica long?” I put it as offensively as I could.
It slid by him. He was sizing me up. Friendly, but closely. I let him take a good look.
“So you’re Matt Cobb, huh?” he said at last.
I pleaded guilty.
“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”
“So are you, if it comes to that. I’m the same age as Monica.”
“Yeah, but she’s got this big father-image conception of you, you know? So I thought you’d be older. She also says you’re very handsome.” His tone implied he didn’t agree.
“How did my name happen to come up?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised at the number of things that can remind her of you, just in the studio at work. If the show was on your Network, that’s probably all she’d talk about.”
Killed in the Ratings Page 3