A Motive for Murder

by Gallagher Gray

  “That must be a very difficult policy to maintain,” T.S. said.

  Her eyes flashed with resolve. “It is, but I feel quite strongly about it. Bobby took Mikey’s childhood away from him. I am not going to let it happen to the others.”

  “Surely that drives a wedge between Mikey and his brothers and sister,” Auntie Lil said.

  “I’m not sure we should discuss the—” the red-headed lawyer began.

  “Oh, shut up, Harry. Who cares?” Nikki took a healthy gulp of wine. “It does divide them, but the damage is done. Can you imagine being a child and worshiping your father? Then one day he announces that he’s moving to the other side of the country and taking someone with him—only that someone isn’t you. It’s your older brother, who is special enough to go with him. I spent the last two years trying to repair the fallout from that stunt. I’m almost there. They each have their own friends, school activities, something they do better than the others. I try to see them as individuals and I’m succeeding.” She leaned against the sideboard as she spoke, her small chin pointed out defiantly as if daring anyone to disagree.

  “Does Mikey have any friends?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Nikki’s smile was bitter. “Not many, if you mean friends his own age. He moves around too much for that. And it’s hard to be sure who really likes him and who is just trying to use him. That’s always what bothered me the most—the piranhas that swam around Bobby, hoping to feed: the producers, studio execs, rock stars, groupies, you name it. Bobby always acted like those people were the greatest, the warmest, the most loyal of friends. I knew they were slime.” She stared out the window thoughtfully. “Children are quite resilient, you know. I’m amazed at how much faster they can bounce back from trouble than I can. So when Bobby called to say that Mikey was taking the role in The Nutcracker and that they would be in New York for a couple of months, I hoped that maybe it would give him enough time to make some friends here and to get to know his brothers and sister again.”

  “Is that why your ex-husband wanted Mikey to dance in The Nutcracker?” Auntie Lil asked. “Mikey was doing so well in the movies. Why take a step backward?”

  Nikki’s eyes were unnaturally bright as she stared at Auntie Lil. “I don’t know why Bobby wanted Mikey to return to New York,” she said softly. “Maybe Bobby wanted to be near our family. I like to think that’s part of it. You have to know how my husband grew up to understand why he became who he was. Bobby’s mother pushed him constantly as a child. She was frantic to get them out of Bensonhurst. It worked. She became a legendary stage mother. He took them out of Queens and into the Promised Land of Los Angeles. But Bobby never learned to love anyone just for who they were. He was always looking for what they could do for him. And he never thought anyone could love him back just for being himself, either. He kept wanting to know what I wanted of him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “All I wanted was to love him and he wouldn’t even allow me that.”

  The uncomfortable silence that followed was broken when Auntie Lil asked gently, “Is it working to have Mikey back in New York? Is he getting along with his brothers and sister?”

  “It’s working. Better than I ever hoped. He’s becoming part of the family again. He even has a circle of friends from the Metro, some of the young boys who dance in The Nutcracker. There are times when he acts like a little boy instead of a star. Those times make me sad, though. I can’t help thinking of what I’ve missed.”

  “I heard you agreed happily with the board’s decision to replace Mikey in The Nutcracker. Why?” Auntie Lil asked. “Other than the obvious?”

  Nikki Morgan answered slowly, as if she were realizing the truth of her thoughts for the first time as she spoke them. “Mikey is a child, not a machine. And he was never a good enough dancer to do that role. They were just using him to sell tickets. When Bobby died, I decided that no one was ever going to use Mikey again. No one. Especially me.” She took another sip of red wine and rolled it around on her tongue, inhaling the flavor absently and staring into her glass as if secrets lingered there. “But he’s still in the production.”

  “What?” T.S. asked. “But Rudy Vladimir just got glowing reviews for—”

  “Of course he did,” Nikki said. “And he deserves them. But Mikey begged me to let him stay. He wanted to be near his new friends. He said they were the only ones he’d ever had. How could I say no?” Her eyes were pleading as she looked up at them. “Please don’t tell anyone, but he’s one of the toy soldiers,” she explained. “He’s always been stiff on stage. Now it works to his advantage.”

  “And no one knows?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Nikki shook her head. “Paulette Puccinni knows. And the other boys. But they protect Mikey. They haven’t told the press. He slips into the theater and dresses quickly in his costume each night.” She sighed and finished the last of her wine. “You mustn’t think I am being disrespectful to Bobby’s memory. It’s just that I know Mikey and he needs to work to take his mind off what has happened.”

  “How has he reacted to his father’s death?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Nikki shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. He doesn’t let anything show. Or very little. And he’s been acting for so long that I can no longer tell what’s genuine and what’s assumed. Except that ever since Bobby died, Mikey’s been withdrawn and anxious to be around his family, maybe even afraid that the same thing will happen to him.”

  “What?” Auntie Lil asked. “Have there been threats?”

  The lawyer half rose from the couch, alarmed at the prospect Nikki waved him back down. “None that I know of. But he does seem afraid. Afraid and trying hard to hide it.”

  “Do you think he’s in danger?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Nikki shrugged. “My husband was never one to be overly concerned about who he did business with. If they had the money, he’d take it. I have no idea who he was associated with or of the caliber of his colleagues. I believe it is entirely possible, indeed probable, that his business affairs had a great deal to do with his death.” She laughed bitterly. “That or one of his affairs.”

  “Mrs. Morgan,” her lawyer warned, rising from the couch. “You must not speak about the possible causes of his death.”

  “Oh, sit down, Harry,” she commanded, uncorking the bottle and pouring the last of the wine into her glass. “Bobby is dead and I’m not going to say anything that isn’t absolutely true.” She dared him to protest but he was obviously well versed in her ways and he sank back down into the overstuffed cushions silently. It was a gross violation of lawyerly responsibility, and both Auntie Lil and T.S. wondered simultaneously whether Harry had a personal stake in Nikki’s happiness.

  Nikki turned to Auntie Lil. “My husband was absolutely incapable of seeing a beautiful woman without making a play for her,” she explained.

  “Lack of self-esteem,” Auntie Lil offered. She was never shy about her psychological opinions.

  “Exactly,” Nikki said. “But think what that did to my own self-esteem.” She held her glass of wine up to the light and examined its color in the glow of a lamp. “Just like blood,” she said, bringing the glass to her lips. “Or maybe Communion.” She fell silent for a moment, lost in memories, then shook her head and continued. “l could have dragged a hundred women into the divorce proceedings. But I didn’t.”

  “Why not?” T.S. asked. “It sounds as if he was pretty nasty to you.”

  Nikki looked up. “The children already hated their father for taking Mikey to California and leaving them behind. I didn’t want to make it worse. He was their father. So I kept the other women out of it.”

  “Any woman in particular?” Auntie Lil asked.

  Nikki shrugged. “Just open the New York City phone book and begin with the As. That will give you a start.” She noticed that her glass was empty and sat it down unsteadily on the sideboard. “The kids will be home in an hour,” she said.

  Harry rose with fresh authority. “I think you should lie down before they get ho
me, Nikki.” He put his arm around her in a very unlawyerlike gesture and began to lead her from the living room, his face softening as he murmured to her under his breath.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask you another question,” Auntie Lil said as Nikki reached the door to the hall.

  Her lawyer looked up in irritation, but Nikki focused her hazy eyes on Auntie Lil’s face and waited for the question.

  “Who inherits your husband’s wealth now that he is gone?” Auntie Lil asked. “And who gets control of Mikey’s money?”

  “I do,” Nikki explained. “He left me everything, even though we were already divorced when he made out his last will. And I get control of Mikey’s trust until he turns twenty-one.” Her eyes blinked and large tears began to trickle silently down her cheeks. “He really did love me,” she whispered softly. “He just didn’t know how to show it.” She moved slowly down the hallway of her cluttered apartment, helped along by the gentle proddings of her lawyer. She looked tiny and vulnerable in his massive arms.

  Auntie Lil wanted to spend the night at T.S.’s apartment, primarily so she could bounce endless and highly creative theories off T.S. He endured them in typical fashion: he ignored most of them and watched the nightly news on mute while she talked. It was much more interesting to fill in his own details about the endless parade of politicians and criminals passing by on the television screen anyway.

  Just as Auntie Lil was speculating that Nikki Morgan’s lawyer may have had something to do with the murder, T.S. caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the screen. A small band of type at the base of the screen popped up, indicating that the footage was live.

  “Look!” he told Auntie Lil, turning up the volume so that they could hear. The screen came into better focus. A polished young newswoman with upswept blond hair and a slight overbite was staring earnestly into the camera, partially blocking the chaotic entrance to a police station. Behind her, a haggard-looking Gene Levitt was being escorted out the front door by a lawyer in an ill-fitting suit.

  “WNBC has just learned from highly placed sources that a new development in the Bobby Morgan murder may be leading authorities closer to the killer,” the blonde intoned with breathless—and well-practiced—excitement. “Witnesses have been coming and going from Midtown North all day, providing hardworking detectives with missing pieces to the puzzle.”

  One of the puzzle pieces—Gene Levitt—spied the camera and lost his temper. He rushed toward the newscaster as if he intended to push her down. His shirt was open, his tie was missing, and he looked as if he had not slept all week. Just as he reached the blonde, arms intervened, pulling him away to one side and out of camera range. His lawyer ran after him, shouting frantically. Meanwhile the blonde continued her well-rehearsed monologue without taking the slightest notice of the commotion behind her. She began to recap the known facts about Bobby Morgan’s death.

  “Gene Levitt is just getting released?” Auntie Lil said. “Two days seems a long time just for questioning.”

  “And why do I think that isn’t his usual lawyer?” T.S. asked. Levitt’s regular lawyer, T.S. knew, would be wearing a suit that fit. Word must have reached everywhere that the producer was flat broke.

  The blonde had finally worked her way up to her late-breaking tidbit. “Prior rumors proved unfounded this evening as a producer embroiled in questionable business deals with the deceased was released after nearly two days of questioning. Apparently, attention was deflected from the suspect when a previously unknown associate of Bobby Morgan’s called the crime team in charge of the case and revealed details of Morgan’s death until now known only to the coroner’s office and detectives assigned to the case. One delighted detective on the case termed the unexpected event as akin to ‘the bad apple falling right out of the tree and into our laps.’”

  “So much for confidentiality,” T.S. muttered. “And similes.”

  “Although the name of the new suspect is not yet known, I have been assured that a plainclothes team is bringing him in right now and we are on the spot to bring you this important development live.” The blonde’s eyes sparkled with the prospect of barging in on the bust. T.S. could practically see her calculating the resulting rise in her ratings.

  “Oh, dear,” Auntie Lil said. What sounded suspiciously like a giggle erupted from her lips. She pointed to the television.

  T.S. stared in disbelief as a crippled Hans Glick was hustled into camera range by two huge plainclothes detectives. There was no need for his crutches as each massive detective was gripping him firmly by an arm and practically lifting him off his feet. Glick’s wire-rim glasses were askew, his normally impeccable hair stood on end, and his self-assured face had dissolved into a flushed and panicked study in frustration.

  “Here comes the suspect now!” the newscaster cried, pouncing on Glick with the swiftness of a cat on a baby sparrow.

  She thrust the microphone in Glick’s face, bumping it on the tip of his nose. “What is your name, sir?” she shouted above the commotion.

  “Come on, Sally. Knock it off,” one of the detectives growled, trying to elbow the newscaster away. She held her place and the detectives were forced to stop and figure out a way around her.

  “Sir! What is your name?” The microphone knocked Glick on his top lip and he jerked upright, perhaps realizing for the first time that it was entirely likely that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of his clients and coworkers were watching the late-night news and witnessing his humiliating march into police custody. He ducked his head with the unerring instincts of a thrice-convicted felon, hiding his face from the prying camera. Twisting, he attempted to turn his back and his broken foot bumped the newscaster in the shins.

  The newscaster spied the cast. Headline-making theories zigzagged through her brain before tumbling from her lips. “Sir! Did you have that cast before you were taken into custody? Have you been brutalized by the police?”

  “Oh for chrissakes, Sally,” the detective nearest her shouted. “Get the hell out of the way! We didn’t touch the guy. Now beat it.” Lifting Glick up in the air, his two escorts bore him over the tangle of camera and microphone wires. One of the detectives hip-checked the newscaster solidly as they passed. She bounced against a bystander and right back into the trio, catching Glick’s plaster-encased foot in her stomach. She skidded sideways from the impact, but recovered and started after them.

  Suddenly new prey caught her attention and she froze like a pointer spotting a duck. “Follow me!” she whispered at the camera and viewers were swept along again, rushing past sleeping junkies and unknown drunks being hustled up the precinct stairs. “Reverend Hampton!” the newscaster called out. “Ben! Just for a minute.”

  The figure dominating the archway into the precinct stopped and turned to the cameras with a graceful and effective sweep. Ben Hampton smiled broadly, at home in all his cinematic glory. Lights blazed and the cameraman scrambled to adjust the lighting for this well-known media icon.

  “He looks different,” T.S. said. “What happened to his hair?”

  Indeed, the Reverend Ben Hampton was a changed man. In place of his electrified hairdo was a well-cropped buzz cut that accentuated the kingly shape of his head. He had ditched his trademark bright tie for a subdued navy one that complemented his tasteful charcoal-gray suit. As he held out his hands for quiet, the entire sidewalk fell silent as if awed by his personal magnetism. When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual, more authoritative and less strident. It swept his listeners along like a mighty current, pulling them toward his conclusions.

  “I am here voluntarily this evening,” he explained into the camera. “I have put the unfortunate incident of my misguided arrest behind me and have taken it upon myself to report back to the police with additional information I may have on the true murderer of Bobby Morgan—father, agent, Hollywood man extraordinaire.”

  “Are you kidding me?” T.S. asked the television out loud. Talking to inanimate objects was another Hubbert trait.

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nbsp; Hampton bowed his head as if he were wilting under the weight of many sorrows. “It is a sad day in this city’s history when no one is safe from crime. When no one—not even those of us fortunate enough to live in the crystal palaces of Lincoln Center—can escape random death.”

  He looked out at the cameras with blazing eyes. “I am taking it upon myself to fight crime in this glorious city of ours starting right here and right now. I will fight it in every way and by every means humanly possible. Tomorrow, I urge you to look for a column in New York Newsday outlining my twenty-point plan for preventing crime. A column by the talented reporter, Margo McGregor.” The newscaster’s microphone wavered. She wasn’t keen on letting him plug a competitor on air. Sensing her displeasure, Ben Hampton grabbed the microphone and began talking into it as he paced the steps. “Join me in my fight against crime on all fronts!” he exhorted. “We will fight crime from our homes and on the streets.” He paused and flashed a bright smile. “My allies in this fight are many. For example, I am proud to announce that the Metropolitan Ballet has named me to their board and agreed to increase its scholarships to minorities as a way to enable our city’s children to leave the streets and take to the stage in the search for normal lives, where dreams are reachable and crime unthinkable.”

  “What?” Auntie Lil shrieked, rising from the sofa. “I never said he could be a board member.”

  “What exactly did you say?” T.S. asked, alarmed.

  “I can’t remember! I can’t think.” She sat down abruptly.

  Within minutes, T.S.’s phone began to ring.

  “Don’t get it,” Auntie Lil warned.

  “Don’t worry,” he replied.