Suspects

by William Caunitz

  MacAdoo McKenzie pulled a filthy handkerchief from his rear pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck. “We understand, Commissioner. Whatever you want.”

  A smile appeared on Scanlon’s lips. Every cop in the Job knows that every boss in the Job above the rank of captain has feet of clay. But when it goes up to their balls, it’s hard to watch. “And what exactly do we do if the facts of the case do not warrant Gallagher’s canonization?” Scanlon asked.

  The PC checked the time. “Thank you for stopping by, gentlemen.” Gomez pushed up out of his chair and went to the door. McKenzie followed. Scanlon remained seated. “Aren’t you leaving, Lieutenant?” Gomez said.

  “I’d like an answer to my question, Commissioner,” Scanlon said, staring out the window at the distant clouds.

  Gomez walked up behind him and whispered in his ear, “You do whatever you have to do, Lieutenant. But don’t get me involved or it will be your ass.”

  Scanlon nodded his understanding and got up.

  “I want a tight span of control on this,” Gomez said. “You, Chief, will report directly to me. Lieutenant, you report to Chief McKenzie and to no one else.”

  “And exactly what do I say to the chief of detectives when he calls and wants to know the status of the case?”

  “You may tell that runty, Napoleonic psychopath to call me personally.”

  I guess they don’t like each other very much, Scanlon thought, leaving the office.

  It was after six that Friday when Scanlon arrived at Luise Bardwell’s Battery Park penthouse. She was waiting as he stepped off the elevator. Five seven or so, he reckoned, trim body, capped teeth and a broad smile. She was barefooted and had on tight shorts and a white tank top that showed it all.

  “Hi,” she said cheerily.

  “Luise Bardwell?” Scanlon asked, reaching for his shield.

  “Yes.”

  He held up his identification for her inspection. “I’m Lieutenant Scanlon. I telephoned.”

  “Please come in, Lieutenant.”

  They were standing in a good-size entry hall of white marble. She led him into a glass-walled living room with a stone fireplace and Art Deco sculpture. “What a view,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s quite nice.” She moved ahead and slid open a glass door that led out onto a conservatory overlooking the Hudson River. The moist smell of heat and dirt came at Scanlon as he stepped into the rooftop greenhouse. It was warmer in there than it was outside. Tall plants stood between tables covered with potted greenery. In the corner, set against the glass wall, were two long pieces of furniture made of bleached planks. Patchwork pillows and cushions contrasted with the stark wood.

  Luise Bardwell lowered herself onto the plank sofa and patted the space next to her. As Scanlon sat, she fluffed a cushion and pressed it to her chest. “Do you mind sitting out here?”

  “Not at all. It’s not often that I have the chance to take in such scenery,” he said, looking out over the river.

  “I find it very peaceful to sit here, with the smell of nature and the great view. Now. How may I be of assistance?”

  “I would like you to tell me about your relationship with Joe Gallagher, George Harris, Valerie Clarkson, and Donna Hunt.” He waved his hand and added, “And the rest of them.”

  She made a tut-tut sound, gave him a perplexed look, pressed the cushion close, and said, “My relationship with those people is not the concern of the police department.”

  “I’m investigating a homicide, Mrs. Bardwell. Not some college prank. I’d appreciate it if you’d answer my questions.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No, you don’t. In that case, I’d have to get a subpoena and usher you in front of the grand jury. If you cooperate now I can guarantee you that there will be no mention of you or your husband to the press, no nasty publicity.”

  “My husband and I live in an open marriage.”

  “Hey? Whatever it takes, go with it.”

  She had a pretty face, a small nose, and a smile that was always there. She wore her yellowish-brown hair short, with bangs.

  “I’m bisexual, and so is my husband. We both believe in enjoying the maximum pleasure that life has to offer.”

  “Will you talk to me about Gallagher and the other people you were involved with?”

  “Yes, I will, if you promise that there will be no publicity about it.”

  “I promise.”

  “My husband is in his study—would you like to talk to him too?”

  “I’d prefer to just speak to you, for now.”

  “Who shall I tell you about first?”

  “Why not start with Harris?”

  She ducked her head in a mock gesture of shyness, smiled, and for the next fifty minutes casually discussed her various and sundry relationships. When she’d finished, she rested her chin on the cushion and said, “Actually, I’ve got the best of both worlds.”

  “You have no children?”

  “No. Max has three from a previous marriage. We have none together. I’m wise enough to know that I’d made a god-awful mother. Beside, I really believe that in this life, I was put on earth to give pleasure to men and to women. Do you believe in reincarnation, Lieutenant?”

  “I never really gave it much thought.”

  “In one of my previous lives I was an Egyptian princess. My name was Isis and I had a son, Horus. I know that just as sure as the two of us are sitting here.”

  Scanlon was aware of the ache in his stump. He rubbed his missing ankle. “Tell what kind of a person George Harris is.”

  “Self-centered, ambitious, with a need to be the man in charge.”

  “And Joe Gallagher?”

  “A sweet man who needed to be in the spotlight. He was always on stage, even in bed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Joe was always looking to do something kinky, or what he thought was kinky. But he didn’t really enjoy sex. He had the need to perform.”

  “And on what basis did you reach that conclusion?”

  “I majored in psychology and my husband is a psychiatrist, a rather good one, I might add.”

  “Did Harris or Gallagher ever discuss their work with you?”

  “Not really. Now and then George would feel like letting off steam and talk about their unit. Especially whenever Joe would cancel some decision that George had made.”

  “Did that happen often?”

  “No. But it did occur every now and then, and whenever it did, George got furious.”

  “How did they get along together otherwise, George and Joe?”

  “Pretty good, I think.” She raised her foot up off the floor and rested it on the seat of the couch, and began to slowly move her knee back and forth. Her tight shorts embraced the contours of her body, as if teasing Scanlon.

  He struggled to keep his eyes topside. “Did Joe ever discuss money with you?”

  “Money wasn’t his thing.”

  “What about Harris—was it his thing?”

  “Most definitely. Shortly after his divorce I remember George boasting about how he had concealed assets from his wife.”

  Scanlon hadn’t known about Harris’s divorce. But that was not unusual in today’s Job. The divorce rate was so high that the subject of equitable distribution had long since become a bore to most cops. Still, Harris had not mentioned it. “How long has Harris been divorced?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess about two years.”

  “Did he ever tell you what the assets were that he concealed from his wife?”

  “He didn’t, and I didn’t ask. I deliberately avoid asking lovers questions about their personal lives.”

  What a sweetheart, he thought. “When you and Harris got together, did you use Gallagher’s pad in Jackson Heights or did you use a motel?”

  She looked at him queerly. “George would take me to his own apartment.”

  “On Staten Island?”

  “No. He has an apartment on Ocean Parkway, in Brooklyn.”
<
br />   “Did you ever go to Gallagher’s apartment in Jackson Heights?”

  “Yes, when I went with him and the ladies to have our little threesomes.”

  “I understand that the threesome was your idea.”

  “Yes, it was. I don’t usually go with blue-collar types, and I thought it might be interesting to see what they were like.”

  “Is that why you went out with Harris and Gallagher?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly two of the biggest cats that Scanlon had ever seen slunk out from behind one of the plants and leaped up on his lap.

  “Oh, my babies are here,” she said. “I was wondering where you were hiding. This is Puss,” she said, petting one of the purring cats. “And my other baby is Fellatio. Aren’t they adorable?”

  She’s a fucking banana, Scanlon thought, taking one of the cats and putting it down. He then picked up the other cat and put it on the floor too.

  “Don’t you like my babies?”

  “I love them, only not on me.” He watched the two cats move off behind a plant. “What can you tell me about the women who participated in the threesome?”

  “Rena Bedford is a young thing who is into just about anything that will give her a thrill. She was an active participant.”

  “And Donna Hunt?”

  “A middle-aged housewife wanting to savor a bit of life before it’s over. Bored with her marriage and her husband.”

  “Was she an active or passive participant in the threesome?”

  She smiled, pressed the cushion close to her chest. “She was very active. I think that she was quite surprised to discover that she was bisexual. And more than a little afraid.”

  The door to the conservatory opened and a paunchy man with an elfin face and a pepper-and-salt beard appeared. He was wearing black cotton slacks and a wide-collared shirt that was open. A heavy gold chain with a gold figurine of Buddha was around his neck. “Hi, I’m Max Bardwell,” he said. “You must be the policeman my wife told me was coming.”

  Scanlon got up, and the two men shook hands. “Would you like some coffee or a drink?” Max Bardwell asked.

  “Coffee might be nice,” Scanlon said.

  “In that case, why don’t we go into the kitchen and I’ll make some,” Luise Bardwell said, getting up.

  Scanlon followed them into a gleaming white kitchen. The wife made coffee. The two men sat at a long white table that had white canvas chairs. “Continue with your questions, Lieutenant,” Luise Bardwell said, pouring water into the pot.

  “Max, did you know of your wife’s involvement with Gallagher and Harris and these women?”

  “Yes, I did,” the husband said. “Luise and I have no secrets with each other. Most people, including yourself, I guess, would consider our marriage unorthodox. And in the ordinary sense, it is. But it works for us, and that’s what counts.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that your wife goes with other people?” Scanlon said, watching the wife lay out cups and saucers.

  “No, it doesn’t,” the wife answered. “My husband knows that I love him and him alone.”

  “Luise is correct, Lieutenant. Our love for each other is the important thing.”

  “You’re both lucky to have found each other,” Scanlon said, looking at the wife. “Tell me about Valerie Clarkson.”

  She poured coffee and sat down next to her husband. “I brought Valerie out. She’s gay. I think that she is much happier now that she knows who she is.”

  Max patted his wife’s hand. “You’re a regular little therapist, that’s what you are.”

  Another banana heard from, Scanlon thought. “Do you still see George Harris?”

  “No. I stopped seeing him and the rest of them about a month ago.”

  “Any reason you stopped seeing them?”

  “I thought that it was time to move on. Broaden my horizons, so to speak.”

  “You’re telling me, Mrs. Bardwell, that you do not see Harris or any of the women anymore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant, according to the newspapers and the radio reports, Gallagher and Mrs. Zimmerman died during an attempted robbery. I can’t understand why you are checking into Gallagher’s relationship with my wife, or Harris, or the rest of them.”

  “Whenever we have a double homicide we have to delve deeper into the case to make sure there is no connection that we’ve overlooked.”

  “What you are saying is that you are not convinced that it was a holdup murder,” the doctor said.

  “No, that is not what I’m saying,” Scanlon said. “The facts of the case bear out that it was a robbery that went sour. But I still have to go through the motions and ask my questions, just to make sure that there is not something there that should be brought out into the light. The department likes everything tidy.” He measured the husband. “Tell me, Doctor, by any chance do you know Dr. Stanley Zimmerman? He’s the son of the woman who was killed.”

  An undercurrent of hostility seeped into Max Bardwell’s answer. “No, I don’t.”

  Scanlon got up. “May I use your telephone? I have to call my office.”

  “Of course,” Luise Bardwell said. “There’s one on the wall here, but why don’t you use the one in the living room. You’ll have privacy.”

  Scanlon stood looking into the fireplace, waiting for someone in the Squad to answer the damn phone, and wondering if people who lived in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were as screwed-up as people were today. An Egyptian princess, my ass.

  He heard a quiet click on the line. Someone had picked up an extension.

  “Nine-three Squad, Suckieluski.”

  Scanlon recognized Hector Colon’s voice. “Suckieluski, anything doing?”

  “Nada. Most of the team have called it a day.”

  “I’m going home from here,” Scanlon said. “Sign me out.”

  “Right, Lou.”

  When Scanlon came back into the kitchen he was taken aback to see Luise Bardwell sitting at the kitchen table next to her husband reading the latest edition of Screw magazine.

  “Would you like some candy?” she asked Scanlon. “They’re quite good; solid milk chocolate.”

  He took a look at the box she held out to him and recoiled at the explicit shapes of the goodies. That one was a vagina. The others he wasn’t so sure about. “I’m on a diet. But thanks anyway. Where does one buy such delights?” Scanlon asked, watching her select a piece for herself and stuff it into her greedy little mouth.

  “Joe Gallagher gave me a box of them,” she said.

  “May I see it?” Scanlon asked.

  She placed it on the table in front of Scanlon.

  The lieutenant looked at the candies and shuddered slightly. He replaced the top and turned the box over. In the right-hand corner on the back there was a label: Luv-Joy Manufacturing Company, Brooklyn, New York.

  7

  Great Jones Street is a continuation of East Third that runs for two short blocks between Bowery and Broadway. There is a wide stretch of undeveloped land on the west side of Engine Company 33’s firehouse that is used as a commercial parking lot during the day and is empty at night, except for a few cars.

  Tony Scanlon’s second-floor loft could be reached by walking through the lot and using the fire escape zigzagging down the rear of the building. He enjoyed jogging up the metal steps. It helped him stay in shape. He also sometimes enjoyed shooting the bull with some of the firemen who hung out in front of the firehouse.

  He parked his car in the rear of the near vacant lot and checked the time. Eight-sixteen P.M. He was tired of people and wanted to be alone. As he locked the car door he noticed a group of firemen ogling coeds rushing to a late Friday class at the nearby NYU campus. One of the firemen, a guy named Fred who lived out in Commack and had a large beer belly, spotted him and waved him over.

  Approaching the group of firemen, Scanlon saw one of them make an obscene gesture at two passing coeds. “Did you catch the tits on them two?” the fi
reman said to Scanlon.

  Scanlon wondered why firemen were always horny. “No, I didn’t. What’s up?”

  “Whaddaya hear on the new contract? Think the mayor is goin’ to go for eight and eight?” Fred asked.

  “We’ll probably end up with the same percentage increase spread over two years,” Scanlon said, wanting to get away from the firemen, to walk. No matter how tired he was, a stroll through the streets of Greenwich Village always seemed to rejuvenate him. His phantom leg never hurt then; he was able to unwind and think.

  The basketball games in the vest-pocket park on the Avenue of the Americas and West Third had attracted the usual throng of spectators and bettors. Sidewalk peddlers were selling batteries, pocket books, and gold jewelry along the curb. Artists were selling their horrible paintings.

  Scanlon strolled, people-watched. Suddenly he saw an approaching couple. A big-boned black woman, outfitted in a black cowboy hat tilted rakishly to the side and tight red slacks and a tight red sweater into which she had poured two mammoth, unhaltered breasts, walked arm in arm with a white Greenwich Village Sikh with a beard down to his chest, a white turban rolled around his head, a white homespun that flowed down to his thonged sandals, and a ten-foot walking pole.

  On Bleecker Street he passed a restaurant that had a hand-painted sign in the window that offered Szechuan and Thai food. He thought of the new wave of Asian immigrants that had taken over the city’s produce industry and remembered how cops had had to learn to distinguish among these newcomers to our shores. The skinny black-haired killer extortionist from Hong Kong, the Korean stickup teams, and the Cambodian drug runners had all seen to that.

  When he turned into West Fourth Street he noticed a group of giggling girls hurrying down the steps of the Pink Pussycat Erotic Boutique. He looked down into the display window and saw a collection of phalluses and edible panties. A big business, Gretta Polchinski had told him. He turned abruptly. There was homework to be done.

  Tony Scanlon’s loft had high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows. A teak polyurethaned floor had been laid diagonally. The galley kitchen had polished granite counters. The walls were natural brick, and there were two rows of iron structural pillars running through the middle of the loft. Rugs were scattered about, and there were groupings of natural wood furniture. In front of the kitchen was a dining area that consisted of four butcher blocks supporting a thick piece of glass. Nail barrels were used as seats. Off in the distance there was a sleeping area that consisted of a king-size platform bed with a heavy brass headboard. On the wall above the bed was a batik that depicted a sea god riding a dolphin through the depths.