Murder with a Twist

by Tracy Kiely

  “No. But you’ve restored my faith that some of greatest actors of our time have not been wholly forgotten.”

  Frank took another sip of his drink. “One of the greatest love stories, too. That Lauren Bacall was a damn fine woman.”

  thirty-four

  Nigel, Skippy, and I returned to the hotel after our meeting with Frank. I then left the two of them there and paid Marcy a visit. She was sitting with her feet up on her desk and reading a file when I entered her office. Seeing me, she sat up and shut the folder. “Hey, Nic. What’s going on?” she asked as she offered me a chair.

  “Oh, just the usual Bacchanalia of holiday family dysfunction,” I said.

  Marcy laughed. “I guess that’s one way to put it. Although it’s much classier than what I would call it. I guess these high society folks are rubbing off on you.”

  “God, I hope not,” I confessed as I sat down.

  “So, what’s all this about Leo having a bunch of money on him when he died?” she asked.

  “Apparently, he had a bunch of money on him when he died,” I answered primly.

  Marcy raised an eyebrow. “Something you’re not telling me, Nic?”

  “Probably,” I admitted. “But it’s not my thing to tell.”

  Marcy crossed her arms. “Nic, a man is dead. One of your relatives …”

  “One of Nigel’s relatives,” I corrected.

  She tipped her head in acknowledgement and started over. “One of Nigel’s relatives is under suspicion in that death. If you know something that affects this investigation, then I’d appreciate it if you’d share it with me.”

  “I know, Marcy. And I will. I promise. I just want to make sure that I understand what I think I know before I say anything. I don’t want to waste your time investigating a misunderstanding.”

  Marcy stared at me for a long beat. “Fine, Nic. Have it your way. But I’m warning you. We go back a long way, and I’ve always counted you as a friend, but that courtesy doesn’t extend to your … Nigel’s … relatives.”

  “Understood. Don’t worry. I’m not going to hide anything from you. I only want to double check some facts first.”

  “Such as?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Everything. Did you ever get any leads on who killed Fat Saul?”

  She shook her head. “No. If anyone knows anything, they aren’t talking. I’m not surprised, really. Fat Saul was a psychopath. Maybe whoever killed him is now being hailed as a hero of sorts.”

  “Or is just the successor to the title.”

  Marcy gave a wan smile. “That’s probably a more likely scenario.”

  “Do you think either Frank or Danny Little had anything to do with it?” I asked.

  Marcy shook her head. “It would make my life so much easier if they had, but honestly, I can’t find any evidence linking them to the crime. They both have airtight alibis. And as much as I hate to admit it, they seem legit. Their alibis, not the individuals who provided them, that is.”

  “Duly noted. What about Lizzy Marks? Any progress there?”

  Again Marcy shook her head. She tapped her pen on the manila folder. “We’re still keeping an eye on her ex-husband, but there’s nothing to connect him to the scene of the crime.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean, there’s nothing to connect him? He was practically stalking her.”

  Marcy nodded. “I know. I know. But technically he obeyed the terms of his restraining order, if not the spirit of it. I can’t find anything that puts him in her apartment. Not that I’ve written him off, of course. I haven’t. But until I get something solid, I have to let him go.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  Marcy cocked her head and stared at me. “Do you think he had something to do with her death?”

  “I don’t know. It makes sense on paper, but there’s something I’m missing. I still don’t get Lizzy and Leo’s relationship.”

  Marcy sat back in her chair and produced a mocking smile. “Really? You don’t? I think I have the files from some of our more lascivious cases that might clarify that for you.”

  “I don’t mean that part,” I said. “I mean, how did they meet? Leo is a … was a gold-digger. Lizzy was cut from the same cloth.”

  “Seems a match made in heaven, if you ask me.”

  “But that’s just it. It isn’t. Leo didn’t have any money. Not really. He just had whatever Audrey gave him. And Lizzy didn’t have anything either. From what Frank and Danny said, she was good at scamming people, but that’s not likely to attract someone like Leo who was looking for a cash cow.”

  Marcy frowned. “What’s your point?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I just wonder how they met in the first place.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It might. Any chance I could take a look at the files?”

  Marcy let out a reluctant laugh. “You never were lacking for moxie were you, Nic?”

  “Moxie? Nope, I’ve never lacked moxie. Good sense, however, was and always will be a whole other problem.”

  Marcy pushed two thick folders across her desk. “Well, that goes without saying. Here, I’m going to get a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

  I admitted I did.

  “Fine. I’ll get you one too. My treat. Why don’t you stay here and wait for me? I should only be about twenty minutes. You can hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks, Marcy. I owe you.”

  She nodded. “Remind me one of these days to let you settle up that bill.”

  _____

  I started on Lizzy’s file first. Elizabeth Marks, a.k.a. “Lizzy,” aged forty-seven, was discovered after a concerned neighbor noticed her apartment door was open and investigated. She was pronounced dead at the scene at 6:00 a.m. The coroner concluded that death resulted from a blow to the head. The wound was likely caused from the edge of a chrome side table. Death was instantaneous. Based on the state of the apartment, it appeared that there had been an altercation prior to the attack. The victim’s ex-husband, William “Billy” Morgan, was interviewed and released. Bags and boxes found in the victim’s bedroom suggested that she was planning on moving. Her landlord, Jerry McLane, confirmed that she had given notice and was scheduled to move out at the end of the month. He knew of no forwarding address.

  Although I already knew most of the facts surrounding Fat Saul’s case, it helped to read them again too. Saul Washington, a.k.a. “Fat Saul,” aged fifty-six, had been found at the Park View Terrace construction site after the foreman, Martin “Marty” White, discovered his body at approximately 5:55 a.m. According to the coroner’s report, Fat Saul had been shot twice at close range in the lower abdomen. Death was not instantaneous, and the victim bled out. The coroner estimated the time of death between 12:00 and 3:00 a.m. No one reported hearing any shots. The gun found at the scene was determined to be the gun used in the shooting and was registered to Saul Washington.

  I sat back and stared unseeingly at the words. I was missing something. If Fat Saul had gone looking for Leo the night he died, then that meant Leo could have been hiding out at the construction site. But why would he hide out there? And why would he think it would be a safe place?

  I decided to have a chat with the owners of Park View Terrace. I moved out of my seat and into Marcy’s empty chair. I tapped in a search on Park View Terrace on her computer. Within minutes, I found what I was looking for; the name of the parent company. The name rang a bell. I jotted down the address, scribbled a note to Marcy apologizing for leaving, and left.

  _____

  Park View Terrace was an enormous skyscraper located in Midtown Manhattan. From the looks of the exterior, no expense had been spared; it was fifty stories of sheer glass and concrete reaching skyward. According to large placard outside the sit
e, it would one day house “an exclusive enclave of timeless elegance for people with discerning tastes.” I had no idea what that even meant, but I still doubted it. Walking over to a construction worker who appeared to be on a break, I introduced myself as a detective and asked about the recent discovery of a body on the site. As I expected, I was immediately directed to a trailer that served as the main office. I knocked on the door and opened it. It was a nondescript, makeshift kind of office. The décor was early American garage sale. To one side were several beige metal file cabinets and a table covered in blueprints. To the other side was a desk, also made of beige metal. Two empty chairs sat in front of it; one sat behind it. This one was occupied. The woman occupying it looked up at me in irritation. I guessed her to be in her early fifties. Her brown hair was streaked with gray and cut into a sensible bob. Her face was narrow but not unpleasant. A pair of glasses was perched low on her thin nose. “Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “Hello, Detective Landis, NYPD. I need to talk with you about the discovery of the body the other night. That of a Mr. Saul Washington,” I said, as I quickly flashed my wallet open. I had made that gesture enough times over the years to know that hardly anyone ever actually looked at the ID. I hoped she would prove to be one of those people. She did.

  “Karen Talingo,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand. “I already talked to the police,” she continued in a polite but firm voice. “And I really am very busy.”

  “I understand that, and I promise not to take up any more of your time than is necessary,” I said as I took a seat in the chair opposite her desk and pulled out the notebook I’d purchased on the way over. “I just have a few questions, Ms. Talingo.”

  She let out a resigned sigh and sat down. “Fire away.”

  I nodded. “I understand that one of your crew found the body?” I glanced down at my notebook where I had jotted down the highlights from the file Marcy had shown me. “A Martin White?”

  She nodded. “Yes. That’s right; Marty found the body on his rounds early that morning. Scared the crap out of him.”

  I gave a sympathetic smile. “I can well imagine. Did you know the deceased?”

  “No,” she answered. I scribbled in my notebook.

  “Had you ever seen the deceased before?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No. And I never saw him after, either. Marty called the police and then me. By the time I got here, the police had removed the body.”

  “I see. Now, where was Mr. White when he found the body?”

  “He was on one of the upper levels.” She paused. “Would you rather talk to Marty?”

  I pretended to consider the question. “Perhaps that would be best.”

  She picked up the phone on her desk and told someone on the other end to send in Marty. After she hung up, she turned to me. “He’ll be right down. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  I said she could. She fixed us both a cup, and we quietly sipped foul-tasting coffee from Styrofoam cups while we waited for Marty to arrive. Within five minutes there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” called Karen.

  The door swung open and a large muscular man with numerous tattoos stepped into the office. “You wanted to see me, Karen?”

  She nodded and indicated me. I stood up and offered my hand. “Hello, Mr. White. I’m Detective Landis. I’m just here to follow up on a few things regarding your discovery of the body the other night. It’ll only take a minute,” I said, indicating the other chair.

  Martin nodded, shot an uneasy glance at Karen, and sat down. “I already talked to the police …” he began.

  I smiled and raised my hand. “I know. My boss is just a stickler for paperwork. I swear, it seems like I waste more time writing down stuff that’s already been written down, if you know what I mean.”

  Martin smiled a little and nodded.

  I glanced down at my notebook. “So, I have here that you discovered the body?” I glanced back at Martin. He nodded. “And the victim was dead when you found him?”

  “Yeah, he was dead all right. I mean, I didn’t touch him or anything, but you could tell he was dead.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry. That must have been a nasty shock.”

  Martin agreed that it was.

  “And where was the victim exactly?”

  “On the tenth floor. We’re further along on those apartments; the lower ones, I mean. Some of them are almost done.”

  I nodded. “I see. Could someone have been staying there—maybe a squatter?”

  Martin paused. “We do try to keep this place secure at night, but we have had some problems with vagrants; especially now that it’s winter. People with no place to go try to find shelter.”

  Or people who are hiding out from violent loan sharks, I mentally added. “That makes sense,” I said. “Did you happen to notice if it looked like someone had been using the apartment for that reason?”

  Martin considered the question. “I didn’t hang around a long time after I found the body, if you know what I mean. There were some wrappers and stuff around. But it could have been trash from our crew.” He looked at Karen sideways. “I mean, they know they’re supposed to pick up their trash, but they don’t always do it.”

  “Sure,” I said, nodding, “that makes sense. But you did see food wrappers and the like?”

  “Yeah. There were empty soda cans and stuff.”

  “Got it. And did you recognize the deceased?”

  Martin shook his head. “No. I never saw the guy before in my life.”

  I jotted this down and then stood up and smiled at Martin and Karen. “Well, I think that about does it for me. Thank you again. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Hopefully I have all I need for my boss.”

  Both Karen and Martin stood up. They each appeared relieved that the interview was over.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” I asked Karen as I glanced at my notebook. “Who owns this site?”

  Karen’s eyebrows pulled together. “Park View Terrace?” she asked.

  “Yes. Who is the owner?”

  “Meyers and Company,” she answered. “Hang on. I have their card right here. Oh, and here’s our brochure if you need more information.” She reached into her desk and retrieved both. I took the card, thanked her and Martin, and left.

  thirty-five

  I was making my way back to the hotel when my cell phone rang. It was Marcy. “Where the hell did you go?” she demanded when I answered. “I go and get you a cup of coffee and return to an illegible note and an empty office.”

  “Would you have preferred a legible note?”

  “I’d prefer you not to run off like that. Where did you rush off to anyway?”

  “I may have made an unofficial visit to Park View Terrace.”

  A brief silence followed. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “Okay. I didn’t.”

  She sighed. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not telling you until you make up your mind.”

  “Never mind. It’s probably better that I don’t know. Did you learn anything?” she asked.

  “Well, according to the brochure I got, the future residents of Park View Terrace will live in ‘an atmosphere where elegance and formality reign supreme and enjoy an inherent sense of grandeur and warmth.’”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s pretty bad prose.”

  “Nic?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to hang up now.”

  “I can’t say I blame you. Thanks again, Marcy.”

  “Don’t mention it. And by that, I mean just what I say. Don’t mention it.”

  _____

  My next visit was to Audrey’s. On my way to her apartment, I stopped at a local deli
and bought a large container of chicken noodle soup and some sandwiches. Audrey answered on my fifth knock. She was wearing a wrinkled tee shirt and a pair of baggy sweatpants. From their appearance, it seemed that she’d slept in them. Her face was red and blotchy and her hair was matted and tangled. “Oh, hello, Nic,” she said her voice dull. “Where’s Nigel?”

  “He’s at the hotel,” I answered. “I’m sorry to stop by unannounced, but I wanted to see how you were doing. May I come in for a few minutes? I brought you lunch.” I held up the brown bag as evidence.

  “Oh, well, okay. Thanks,” Audrey said, opening the door wide to let me in. “That was nice of you, but you didn’t need to.”

  “Nonsense,” I answered. “You’ve been through hell. You need to take care of yourself. When did you last eat?”

  “Um … yesterday? But I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat something. You sit down. I’ll get the plates.” Audrey wandered over to the couch and curled up with a large throw pillow while I headed for the kitchen. I found a tray and set out the soup and sandwiches. When I returned to the living room, Audrey was staring into space.

  “Here you go,” I said, setting the tray down on the table.

  Audrey looked blankly at the food. I handed her a spoon. “Eat.”

  Reluctantly Audrey sat up and began to eat her soup and sandwich. I did the same with mine. Neither of us spoke. After awhile, Audrey pushed her empty plate and bowl away and curled back up on the couch. “Thanks, Nic,” she said. “I guess I was hungrier than I realized.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  She shook her head. “It all seems like a nightmare. I keep hoping that I’ll wake up and find that this was all a terrible dream.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  “But it’s not a dream, is it?” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Leo never loved me. He used me for my money, and I was too stupid to see it. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad my parents aren’t alive to see what a mess I made of my life.”

  “I wish I could say something to make you feel better. I’m sorry Leo wasn’t a very nice man. But don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re not the first woman to make a mistake about love.”