Phantom Angel

by David Handler

  “Whatever you say. We just have to make one quick stop on the way.”

  * * *

  LEAH HAD ALREADY HEARD the news. The television in the suite’s living room was tuned to CNN’s live coverage of the shooting.

  “Why would anyone want to hurt Morrie?” she asked me forlornly as she sat there on the sofa, clutching a wadded tissue in her hand. Her face was flushed, her eyes red. The woman was devastated. “How will Wuthering Heights go on without him? How will I go on? God, what will I do?”

  I reached for the remote and muted the sound. “You’ll keep on going,” I said to her consolingly. “That’s what we do, Leah. We have to. Didn’t you mention that you have a son who lives in Williamsburg?”

  She swallowed, nodding her head. “Charlie.”

  “Would you like us to call him for you?”

  “Thank you. I’ll call him myself in a—a little while.” Leah dabbed at her nose with the tissue, gazing across the coffee table at me. “You’re being very sweet, considering the way Morrie talked to you. It was just noise, you know. He didn’t mean half of what came out of his mouth. That was just Morrie’s way. We worked together, side by side, our whole lives. He was my best friend. We were a team. We were…” She let out a pained sob. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling like a crazy woman, aren’t I? I—I just can’t believe he’s gone. Why would anyone want to do this to him?”

  “That’s what Lieutenant Diamond’s going to find out.”

  “May I ask you a couple of questions?” Legs said to her. “Or I can come back later if you don’t feel up to it right now.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” Leah sat up straighter in her trim linen dress, willing herself back to a state of crisp, professional composure. “Ask me anything, Lieutenant. I want to help.”

  “Were you in on this R. J. Farnell scam with Mr. Frankel?”

  “No, I was not. Morrie didn’t tell me every single thing he was doing. How could he? That man came up with new ideas in his sleep. And he … did keep secrets from me,” she admitted, lowering her eyes.

  “He lied to you, you mean,” I said. “He promised you Farnell would come through for him. That’s how he convinced you to give him your last hundred thou, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” Leah allowed.

  “That had to be hard,” Legs said.

  “Not at all,” she responded sharply. “I was accustomed to Morrie’s ways. You’d be amazed at what can seem normal after a while, Lieutenant. Besides, Morrie needed that money desperately. He wasn’t worth a cent. All he had were debts. There’ll be creditors lined up around the block tomorrow morning.”

  “How much did he owe Joe Minetta?” Legs asked her.

  “Millions. Don’t ask me how many. I don’t know.”

  “Was there anything on paper? Did Mr. Frankel ever sign a promissory note?”

  “Never. It was strictly cash and a handshake with Joe. Which was fine by Morrie. He liked doing business that way, too. I used to keep tens of thousands in cash downstairs in the hotel’s safe. Not anymore. All that’s left is a few hundred dollars in my office strongbox. And would you believe he owed the Morley three months back rent on this suite?” She looked around at the worn furniture and food-stained walls. “They could have kicked him out if they’d wanted to, but they took pity on him. Pity. That’s how far he’d fallen. Such a great, great producer. They should name a theater after him. No one gave more to Broadway than Morrie Frankel did. I—I wonder if they’ll even dim the lights on the marquees for him tonight.”

  “That’s the traditional Broadway tribute when someone of his stature passes away,” I said. “I’m sure they will.”

  She looked at me surprised. “Really? I’m not. The other producers all hated him, you know. Morrie didn’t just burn bridges. He dynamited them. I’ll … try to keep the office open for the time being. I’ll be getting phone calls from the press. And the lawyers and agents will be calling. Wuthering Heights was his last great discovery. And the show must go on, right?” Leah let out a mournful sigh, her resolve crumbling. “My God, will you listen to me? There is no Wuthering Heights. Or at least not with this company’s participation. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Why not, Leah?”

  “Because Matthew and Hannah were under contract to Morrie Frankel Productions. And Morrie Frankel Productions owned the rights to the book, the music, lyrics. Morrie was Morrie Frankel Productions. He was a one-man band. There was no organization, no chain of succession. Just Morrie.”

  “And I’m guessing,” Legs said slowly, “that all of those very talented people have very smart lawyers who made absolutely sure they inserted an out-clause in case anything unfortunate should happen to that one-man band.”

  “Naturally,” Leah said. “With Morrie gone those contracts will be voided. Matthew and Hannah will be free to sign with anyone else they choose. The whole creative team will be. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? These awful people who shot Morrie did more than just kill him. They did something ten times worse. They stole his show out from under him.”

  * * *

  “DO YOU THINK that’s why he was killed?”

  “Don’t you?” I said, holding on for dear life as we rocketed down Fifth Avenue in Legs’ dented, sprung Crown Vic. Pedal to the metal is the only way he knows how to drive—slowpokes, delivery vans and potholes be damned.

  “It plays in terms of motive, that’s for damned sure. Except I’ve got a couple of problems, such as—”

  “Why bother,” I said, nodding. “Morrie was already circling the drain. Why not just wait for him to lose Wuthering Heights on his own?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “What’s your other problem?”

  “The shooting. It has the outward appearance of being a professional hit, except it’s what I call a disorganized homicide.”

  “Disorganized as in…?”

  “Busy street, lots of witnesses. It was planned, no question. But pros like to work in the quiet and the dark. And they don’t like witnesses.” Legs brooded in silence for a moment before he said, “What’ll happen to that lady?”

  “Leah’s a top theatrical assistant. My guess? Somebody will find a place for her.”

  “And what about Wuthering Heights?”

  “That I don’t have to guess about. Ira Gottfried will take it over and Panorama will make a fortune. Just think how much free publicity this show’s about to get. Morrie’s murder is a tabloid dream. It’s huge, Legs.”

  “Huge,” Legs agreed as he sped past Madison Square Park toward the Flatiron Building. At 23rd Street he veered left onto Broadway. His cell phone rang. He took the call. Listened. Listened some more. Then said, “Okay, good. Thanks.” Rang off and said, “They used a license plate reader to track the Navigator. It left Manhattan through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel less than a half hour after the shooting. Came in through the very same tunnel from Queens at seven minutes after ten this morning.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “A housewife in Bayside. She reported it stolen out of a Waldbaum’s parking lot in Flushing shortly before nine o’clock.” Legs glanced across the seat at me. “How’s your mom doing?”

  “She’s good. Stop by and say hi. She misses you.”

  “I miss her, too. Abby’s one of the great ones. And what’s up with Rita?”

  “She’s seeing a dentist named Myron.”

  “So you two aren’t together anymore?”

  “We were never ‘together.’ We were just a couple of friends helping each other through a rough patch.”

  He flashed a grin at me. “Rita’s six feet tall. She’s totally hot. She used to be a lap dancer. And you’re making it sound like it was no big deal, you player. Hell, I can remember when you were afraid to ask little Cricket out on a date. Although now that I’ve met her I can see why.”

  “Legs, I was a whole lot younger then.”

  “Dude, it was three years ago.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. It was five. Okay, four. A
nd how about you?” Legs is a lone wolf. His longest relationship lasted three weeks. “What’s up between you and Sue Herrera of OCCB?”

  “What makes you think anything is?”

  “You cock-blocked me when I mentioned her name to you on the phone.”

  “That wasn’t a cock-block. That was a friendly warning. She’s toting excess baggage—an eight-year-old daughter and a restraining order against her ex, Richie, who’s on the job and has anger management issues, as in he likes to beat the crap out of Sue whenever he gets loaded. It’s a package deal. And it’s not for me. She’s not for me. So let’s just drop the subject,” he growled. “Why are we even talking about this?”

  “Because you brought it up.”

  “Watch yourself, cowboy. I can still pound the snot out of you.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I’ve got some wicked new moves.”

  Our destination, 26 Federal Plaza—officially known as the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building—is a huge fortress of granite and glass that’s located across Foley Square from the New York County Courthouse. There are concrete bollards placed strategically outside of the building to keep car bombers from getting any ideas. And there are checkpoints galore. We had to pass through three of them in order to reach the FBI’s offices up on the 23rd floor.

  The meeting we’d been summoned to didn’t take place in somebody’s private office. Or in one of those formal conference rooms where a bunch of Very Serious People sit around a long table while another Very Serious Person delivers a PowerPoint presentation. No, we met in a small, windowless room that would have served nicely as a break room if it had a refrigerator and a microwave. Which it didn’t.

  Three people were crammed in there waiting for us. One was our good friend Sue Herrera, who looked exceedingly tense. One was an FBI Special Agent named Jack Dytman, who was maybe thirty-five, skinny and bucktoothed, with flaky hair of no particular color and a heat rash on his neck that looked itchy and angry and just plain awful. I mean it, the man’s neck looked like raw ground round. Dytman was also the possessor of a truly damp handshake. My dad taught me to never, ever trust a man who has a truly damp handshake. The third person was Gino Cimoli, a U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York City, which means Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island. Cimoli was in charge. He let us know this by staying on his feet, one foot planted firmly on an empty chair, while the rest of us were seated. He had a cocky, blustery air about him. Which was to be expected. Federal prosecutors don’t tend to be shrinking violets. Purple people eaters is more like it. Think Chris Christie. Think Rudy Giuliani. Don’t think matinee idol. Cimoli was tubby, jowly and a bona fide chrome dome. He was also in need of a serious style makeover by Joe Minetta. The man’s dark gray Zegna knockoff didn’t help him one bit. The pants were way too roomy in the seat. Plus he wore an unstylish sneer on his face that I’m guessing had been there since the first time he went away to sleepover camp and got tagged with the nickname of Lumpy. Cimoli was trying real hard to impress Sue Herrera. I know this because he was sucking in his stomach and puffing out his chest. He had no chance. Not with Legs in the room. None.

  “There are some questions we need to ask you, Mr. Golden,” he began gruffly. “And we expect honest answers.”

  “Do I need to call my honest lawyer?”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that would mean that we were actually having this conversation. Do we understand each other?”

  “Not really, but I’m kind of slow.”

  “It means that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Special Agent Dytman said, craning his itchy neck.

  I looked at Legs. “Did you bring your decoder ring?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “We just need to know what you bad boys are into,” Sue explained, her dark eyes gleaming at Legs. “We’re all on the same side. We can play nice, can’t we?”

  Legs smiled at her. “I always play nice, Suzy Q.”

  She smiled back at him. “That’s true, you do.”

  Cimoli glared at them. Dytman craned his itchy neck some more, fingering it gingerly. Me, I was starting to miss sitting in my parked car in the hot sun on Staten Island. I’d been alone with my thoughts. I could listen to Ethel Merman. Life was good then.

  “Jonquil Beausoleil,” Cimoli barked at me. “Where is she?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You slipped your tail, Benji,” Sue said scoldingly.

  “You’re not going to slap me around again, are you?”

  Legs’ eyes widened. “She slapped you?”

  “Where’d you take her?” Sue asked me.

  “For a walk in Central Park. And I didn’t tip your play, if that’s what you’re freaking out about.”

  “What did you do?” Dytman asked me.

  “Gave her the usual speech I give to eighteen-year-old runaways who find themselves in her position—get out of the business now or you’ll end up becoming a prostitute.”

  “End up becoming a prostitute?” Cimoli let out a harsh laugh. “What do you think she is now?”

  “A high school cheerleader from Ruston, Louisiana,” I said to him.

  “Then what happened?” Sue asked me.

  “We parted company. She told me she’d have one of the Crown Towers boys come pick her up. That was the last I saw of her.”

  “When was this?”

  “Why are you so interested in her?”

  “Because it so happens that everyone else is home,” Sue explained. “Every single one of the boys and girls is tucked in at the Crown Towers as we speak. Everyone except for Jonquil Beausoleil.”

  “Where is she?” Cimoli demanded.

  “I just told you. I left her in the park.”

  “And when was this?” Sue asked me again.

  “Early this afternoon.” It was now after five o’clock.

  “Are you purposely being vague?” Dytman asked me.

  “Who’s being vague?” Legs demanded. “Isn’t it about time you told us why we’re here?”

  Sue Herrera looked at Jack Dytman who looked at Gino Cimoli. He gave Dytman a brief nod.

  Dytman cleared his throat and said, “For the past several months we’ve been conducting a joint FBI-NYPD investigation into illegal activities that are headquartered in the Crown Towers apartment building. Thousands of man-hours have been invested in this investigation, which has been dubbed Operation Yum-Yum for reasons that will soon become clear to you. We’re now one hundred percent certain that we have the Minetta crime family nailed on a laundry list of RICO violations. We have all of our ducks in a row. And we have the green light. We’re ready to move in and shut that whole criminal enterprise down. The manpower is literally on standby at this very minute.”

  Legs tugged at his goatee. “You’re planning to raid the building?”

  “In exactly … sixty-seven minutes,” Dytman confirmed, glancing at his watch. “Unless you gentlemen give us a good reason not to.”

  Sue gazed at me inquiringly. “Benji, why do we keep running into each other? This morning you were at the Crown Towers looking for Jonquil Beausoleil. And this afternoon you were less than fifty feet from Morrie Frankel when he was gunned down after he met with Joe Minetta in Bryant Park.”

  “You were watching Joe Minetta? I didn’t spot your people. Who…?”

  “Two young mothers with stroller cams,” she replied. “Why were you there? We need to know why you were tailing Morrie Frankel. And why you were looking for Jonquil Beausoleil. And what the connection is, or I should say was, between her, Morrie Frankel and Joe Minetta. Legs, we know you’ve got a murder to investigate. What we don’t know is whether our two cases have anything to do with each other.”

  “We’ve got to know if your murder investigation is going to compromise our operation,” Cimoli huffed at him. “And I mean right fucking now.”

  “How would I know?” Legs huffed right back. “I haven’t got the sli
ghtest idea what’s been going on at the Crown Towers. Everything so far has been about you and what you need. Let’s talk about me for a change. My job is to catch two people who just murdered Broadway’s most famous producer in front of a gazillion horrified tourists, quite a few of them children who will never forget what they saw today. My job is not to sit in a glorified broom closet while some fat clown cake from DOJ tries to swing his inch-long dick at me. I’ve got things to do. So tell me, tell us, what the fuck is going on or we are out the door. Got it?”

  Cimoli flushed a deep shade of red. I forgot to mention that you don’t ever want to play the bully card with Legs. That’s even more heinous than calling him Larry.

  “Not one word we say here leaves this room,” Sue cautioned me. “Do I have your word?”

  “You do.”

  “How do we know he can be trusted?” Cimoli demanded.

  “You don’t have to know,” Legs replied. “I know.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” Dytman said placatingly. “Totally fine. Here’s the deal, okay? We’ve been wiretapping the Crown Towers twenty-four/seven for some time now. The building’s owned by the Minettas through a legitimate subsidiary known as—”

  “Top Hat Property Management,” I said. “I already know that.”

  “What you may not know,” Dytman said, his nostrils flaring at me slightly, “is that Joe Minetta, Jr., better known as Little Joe, has put together an incredibly sophisticated and lucrative operation with his cousin Petey. These boys are college graduates with cutting-edge computer skills and loads of ingenuity. Just for starters, they’re running an Internet porn empire out of the Crown Towers—or Little Joe’s Yum-Yum Tree as we call it. Sixteen webcam girls are living there at all times. The boys have units there, too. The whole setup is like a frat boy’s wet dream. And the porn sites are nice, solid earners. But they’re strictly window dressing. The big money comes from something a whole lot nastier. Day in and day out they manage to convince hundreds of lonely, horny rubes out there to pony up thirty-nine bucks a month for extra-special membership in—”