Phantom Angel
Page 20
There was a knock on the door now.
Legs opened it. Two cops in uniform stood out there in the hall. “These gentlemen will drive you to Midtown South,” he told Leah before he formally arrested and informed her of her Miranda Rights. “I really do recommend that you get yourself a lawyer.”
“Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant.”
“Where will we find Charlie?”
Leah glanced at her watch. “At his Thai cooking class, I believe. It’s above a restaurant in Williamsburg.” She gave him the address. “Please don’t embarrass him in front of the others. Charlie’s very sensitive. He’s not a bad boy, you know. Just weak.”
“We’ll do our best. Now if you’ll please go with these gentlemen…”
“Of course. Just let me get my purse and … will I be coming back here?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“In that case I’d like to shut down my computer.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
He followed Leah into her office just in case she was planning to dive out a window or swallow a bottle of pills. I imagine he also went through her purse to make sure she didn’t have another gun in it. They returned a moment later, Leah carrying the purse and a lightweight sweater.
She paused there for a moment, gazing around at the living room of the dingy hotel suite where she’d worked with Morrie Frankel for her entire adult life. Her eyes fell on all of those framed photos she’d been boxing up. “You’ll call the folks at NYU for me, Benji?”
“Yes, I will. I’ll take care of it.”
“The manager can let you in. Just tell him I said it was okay.”
“Will do.”
“Thank you, Benji. You’ve been very understanding. Your mother must be extremely proud of you.” Leah took one last look around, smiled at Legs and said, “I feel much better now. In fact, I haven’t felt this good in years.”
“In that case,” he said in response, “I’m very happy for you.”
* * *
A BLUE AND WHITE was double parked out front behind Legs’ sedan. And Cricket was hanging around there on the sidewalk, looking guilty and miserable.
Legs and I stood under the Morley’s awning and watched his men help Leah into the backseat of their blue and white. Then they got in and drove off. Leah waved good-bye to us through the window, smiling. We waved back. Neither of us was smiling.
“That was solid work you did,” Legs said to me. “Your dad would have been proud.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” I said with great certainty. “And I still don’t feel like one of the good guys.”
“I know you don’t. That’s part of the deal, I’m sorry to tell you.”
“In that case I want to renegotiate.”
“You don’t get to. That’s not part of the deal.” He patted me on the shoulder like the big brother that he was. “Later, little bud.”
“Later, Legs.”
He got in his car and drove off. I started walking my way toward Sixth.
“Did Leah kill him?” Cricket hollered after me as she followed me down the block. “Is that why they’re taking her in? Hey, wait up, will you, Benji?”
I stopped so that she could catch up to me. “I have nothing to say to you, Cricket.”
“Come on, Benji. Be nice. I gave her up. I helped you.”
“You blackmailed her into being one of your sources. And you got a girl killed.”
“And I feel like shit about it. I’m incredibly sorry about what happened. It’s not like I meant for it to turn out that way. I was just doing my job.” Her eyes searched my face imploringly. “How do I make things right between us? Tell me, will you?”
“Well, if you want to do me a favor…”
“Anything. Just name it.”
“If you see me walking down the street, please cross over to the other side so we don’t bump into each other. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
Cricket gaped at me in shock. “What, just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“But, Benji, I was your first sweetie.”
“No need to remind me.”
“And we’re friends.”
“No, we’re not. Not anymore.”
She glared at me now. “You came looking for me at Zoot Alors, remember? If you’re searching for someone to blame you ought to be blaming yourself.”
“Cricket, I’m way ahead of you on that score.”
“So that’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”
“No, I do have one other thing to say.”
“What is it?”
“Good-bye.”
* * *
“I THINK I’ll have that beer now.”
Farmer John’s face fell when he saw me. “I wondered if you’d be back,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a blue bandana.
“I’m back.”
Back at the Farm Project in Brownsville, where the gentle giant was sowing seeds in one of the farm’s raised beds, surrounded by kids and their moms. A couple of shirtless young black guys were pushing wheelbarrows of compost around, the sweat pouring off of them. A group of teenaged girls were sneaking looks at them, whispering to one another and giggling. It was now Day Seven of the Heat Wave of the Century. The thermometer was hovering in triple digits yet again. The air was heavy and sticky. The weathermen were really, truly promising that a cold front would really, truly blow down from Canada later that night and bring mercifully fresh, cool air with it. But they’d been promising that for the past two days. I was no longer wondering if they were lying to us. I was positive they were.
Little Joe Minetta, his cousin Petey and all the other boys and girls who’d been snared in Operation Yum-Yum were out on bail. Leah Shimmel and her son Charlie had been arraigned and officially charged with the shooting death of the great Morrie Frankel. “Girl Friday Gone Wild,” the geniuses at the New York Post had taken to calling Leah. Meanwhile, lawyers for Panorama Studios were poring over the contracts that Matthew Puntigam and Hannah Lane had signed to star in Morrie Frankel’s lavish, trouble-plagued sixty-five-million-dollar musical production of Wuthering Heights. According to an informed source, it now appeared likely that the young stars would fly to Tanzania very soon to begin filming The Son of Tarzan. They hoped to resume their quest for Broadway stardom next season in a Panorama-backed production of Wuthering Heights.
I know this because I read it on crickoshea.com.
Legs had the unhappy task of contacting Boso’s mother down in Ruston, Louisiana, to notify her of her daughter’s death. He told me that Boso’s mother took the news without emotion. He also told me that he’d had zero luck tracking down our rooftop shooter, who’d fired from the window of a vacant eighth-floor apartment across the street on Broadway. The apartment was being repainted and the building’s super had mistaken the shooter for a member of the painting crew. The super described him as a white male, about forty, medium height and build. Beyond that, Legs had nothing. Because a pro leaves nothing.
“I saw those nude photos of her in the newspapers,” Farmer John said to me, his voice hoarse with grief. “I—I couldn’t believe it was actually her. What did she get herself into?”
“I tried to pull her out of it, John. I did my best. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, Benji. Boso wasn’t a happy person. She didn’t allow herself a moment of inner peace. She’s found it now.” He stood there for a moment, blinking back his tears, then went back to sowing his seeds.
“What’s that you’re planting?”
“Our fall lettuce. Lettuce doesn’t like heat. The fall’s perfect for it if you start your seeds now and keep them moist.”
“Do you need any help?”
“You were serious about that beer?”
“Totally.”
Farmer John studied me, his big jaw stuck out. “Fair enough. You see that bed of eggplant and zucchini over there?”
“Sure thing. Want me to harvest it?”
“In your dreams. The ki
ds do the harvesting. They love it. What they don’t love is weeding. That’s where people like you and me come in. It’s hard, painstaking work, but it’s got to be done. Come on, I’ll show you.” He led me over to the bed, pulling a trowel from the back pocket of his cut-off overalls. “If we don’t get these weeds out of here they’ll steal the soil’s nutrients away from the vegetables and eventually take over. They’re predators. Have to be taken out by the root. Dig down until you find the root, then give it a twist and pull it out. Don’t break it off. Get the whole root. Dig, twist, pull. Then toss it in that blue barrel.” He handed me the trowel. “Got it?”
“Got it.” I went to work with the trowel, feeling the hot sun beating down on the back of my neck.
He stayed and weeded with me for a moment, using his pocketknife to dig with. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Did Boso say anything to you about me?”
“Yes, she did. She said that you were a great guy.”
“Was she … What I mean is, do you think she was ever going to come back to me?”
“No, she wasn’t. You were never going to see her again.”
He swallowed, blinking back his tears again. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not bullshitting me. You’re on your own now. Just keep doing what you’re doing. When you’ve filled the blue barrel all the way to the top you’ll be in line for that beer.”
“Sounds like a deal.”
Farmer John stopped for a moment to chat with some small kids who were excitedly picking green beans. Then he went back to sowing his lettuce seeds, alone with his grief, while I worked on the weeds that were preying upon his eggplant and zucchini, removing them one by one. Dig, twist, pull. Dig, twist, pull. By now the sun was baking the skin on my back right through my T-shirt. But I paid little attention to it. Just focused on the weeds and on clearing them away from the healthy living things that were trying to grow there. I found myself liking this particular job. No one was trying to play me. No one was getting shot. It was just the weeds, the soil and me. As I worked I heard the kids playing. A little boy squirted a little girl with a hose and got chased for his trouble, laughing and laughing. I heard laughter all around me. I hadn’t heard any laughter for quite a while. Not since the last time I was here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID HANDLER is a winner of both the Edgar and American Mystery awards. He began his career as a journalist and was the New York cultural correspondent and Broadway critic for Scripps Howard News Service, as well as a frequent contributor to TV Guide and other national magazines, before he began writing for television and films. He’s the author of the Stewart Hoag and the Berger and Mitry mystery series. Handler lives in Old Lyme, Connecticut, in a two-hundred-year-old carriage house.
Visit his Web site at www.davidhandlerbooks.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
Also by David Handler
FEATURING BENJI GOLDEN
Runaway Man
FEATURING BERGER & MITRY
The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb
The Snow White Christmas Cookie
The Blood Red Indian Summer
The Shimmering Blond Sister
The Sour Cherry Surprise
The Sweet Golden Parachute
The Burnt Orange Sunrise
The Bright Silver Star
The Hot Pink Farmhouse
The Cold Blue Blood
FEATURING HUNT LEIBLING
Click to Play
FEATURING STEWART HOAG
The Man Who Died Laughing
The Man Who Lived by Night
The Man Who Would Be F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Woman Who Fell from Grace
The Boy Who Never Grew Up
The Man Who Cancelled Himself
The Girl Who Ran Off with Daddy
The Man Who Loved Women to Death
FEATURING DANNY LEVINE
Kiddo
Boss
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
Also by David Handler
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
PHANTOM ANGEL. Copyright © 2015 by David Handler. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Rob Wood/Wood Ronsaville Harlin, Inc.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Handler, David, 1952-
Phantom angel: a Benji Gold mystery / David Handler.—First edition.
P. cm.—
“A Thomas Dunne Book.”
ISBN 978-1-250-05973-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6507-5 (e-book)
I. Title.
PS3558.A4637P48 2015
813'.54—dc23
2014034044
e-ISBN 9781466865075
First Edition: February 2015