by Polly Iyer
“No telling. Could have been they knew you were connected to Mr. Russo. The feds have been watching him for years. They know what he eats for breakfast. Your association goes way back. On the other hand, it could have been plain bad luck. But the two newer accounts are brilliantly hidden, if I have to say so myself.”
She wanted to ask him why he didn’t switch the older account into a safer place, but she was small potatoes compared to his other clients. Hardly worth bothering with except Mario asked him to help her in the first place. Any comment would seem ungrateful. “Well, I’m not willing to take the chance they won’t be found.”
“It’s your money, Ms. Dell. I’ll do whatever you want, if you’re sure.”
She didn’t think Rick Martell would embrace the real reasons she wanted the accounts closed. “I’m sure. Can you do it now?”
He looked hesitant.
“I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d feel better if you’d make the transfers immediately.”
He shook his head but didn’t argue further. “If that’s what you want.”
She spent an hour while he pulled up her account on the computer and transferred the money to the various destinations on her list.
“Done,” he said. “No need to worry anymore.”
Ever since Mario mentioned one of his people had problems with Colin at Upper Eighties, Tawny wondered who Mario cared enough about to expose himself to Benny. Her previous computer search on the crime boss had supplied her with more information than she needed, but now some of it started to make sense. Besides learning his sons ran his construction company and supposedly were not involved in the family business, she learned Rick Martell was more than an accountant. He was related by marriage. This was the perfect opportunity.
“You know, I’m working for Benny Cooper, and he’s paying me a considerable amount of money in cash. Should I keep it in a safe deposit box or should you run it through the modeling job?”
He froze and stuttered his response. “Who…who’s Benny Cooper.”
She noticed the difference between his actions and his words. She’d play it cool. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you might know him. Forget I mentioned him.”
“Why would you think I should know him? I mean, I know what you do, Miss Dell. If you’re working for him, why would you think I know him? I don’t understand. I’m a happily married man. Married to Mr. Russo’s niece, in fact. Happily married.”
Methinks thou dost protest too much, Mr. Martell. A sheen of perspiration covered Martell’s upper lip, and he pulled a starched white handkerchief from inside his jacket pocket and patted it dry. Now that Martell was pressing her, she had to come up with an answer.
“Since you don’t know Mr. Cooper, what makes you think whatever I’m doing for him involves the sex trade? I have a doctorate in art history. How do you know my work isn’t related to that?”
Martell’s face reddened. “S-sorry, I assumed. That was stupid of me. I apologize. Now, what was the question?”
The man was wound tight. She didn’t want to belabor the point or to put Martell on the defensive any more than she had. “The work I’m doing for Mr. Cooper that he’s paying for in cash—should I put it in a safe deposit box or should you run it through my modeling business?”
“Um, safe deposit box. Since you’re diverting your other money, you might need to tap into your resources. No one can touch it without a court order, and there’s no reason the police or the FBI would do that.”
That’s what you think. “Thank you. That’s what I wanted to know.” She got up and swung her satchel over her shoulder. “I’d better be going. Thank you for making the transactions. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
Martell walked her to the door, she thanked him again, and he let her out. She heard the latch lock behind her. All in all, a very informative afternoon. She was getting good at this spy stuff, but she also hoped her assignment would soon be over.
Making her way to the cab stand half a block down, she noticed a tall, muscled black man standing in the doorway of a quick shop, coffee clutched in a hand as big as a baseball mitt. The sun reflected off his shaved head, his cold eyes riveted on her as if she were a space alien. The intensity of his stare burned her back all the way to the cab stand. When she got into the back seat, she turned to see him still staring.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Pitiful Subterfuge
Tawny left Martell’s, changed into sweats when she got home, and ran a few miles around Lower Manhattan. She showered, did laundry, cleaned the loft, and made sambar, a thick Indian soup of lentils and vegetables, fragrant with curry. All the activity was supposed to keep her from thinking about Walsh, but he was all she thought of while exhausting herself.
She’d laid it on the line. Straight, no bullshit. She knew what made men tick better than most women, at least the men who paid for her—ego, money, sex, a combination of two, or more likely, all three.
Walsh liked nice clothes and had a thing for shoes, but he was rarely the topic of his own conversation. As for money―no, uh-uh. Money was not his driving force, or he wouldn’t be a cop. That left sex. At first she thought that’s what he was about―dangerous for a sex-crime investigator―but he walked out the door when she was at her weakest, when they both knew he could have taken her. But he walked. So what was his story?
Get him out of your mind, Tawny Dell. Nothing good can come of your life with him in it or you in his. The decision made, she ate dinner and went to bed with a book to keep her mind from wandering. That didn’t work either because she thought back to the afternoon and the phone call she received from FBI Special Agent Harry Winokaur inviting her to lunch tomorrow. He introduced himself as Walsh’s friend. Walsh had mentioned him casually, and from those times, she’d guessed they were close. So why would Winokaur want to have lunch with her? Simple. He wanted to warn her off messing up a cop’s career.
She woke early, languished over coffee with The Times, checked the computer, and faced the fact it was time to get ready for a lunch she didn’t want to go to. She tucked a man-tailored shirt into belted slacks, slipped into a pair of sandals, and she was out the door to meet Winokaur at a Noodle Shop in Lincoln Center.
Studying the people waiting in line when she arrived, she didn’t see anyone who looked like they were waiting for her. Should she stand in line or wait outside? Then the man at the door asked if she was Miss Tawny. When she nodded, he directed her upstairs. Another man gestured her to a table where a lone man sat drinking hot tea. He stood and offered his hand.
“Ms. Dell, Harry Winokaur.”
She had conjured an image of Winokaur, maybe because of the Harrys she’d known over the years, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Where she had pictured a man of average height, stocky, and balding, Winokaur towered over her by six inches, and she was five-ten. Lean, of medium complexion, with a full head of salt and pepper hair, cut short, he could easily be described as handsome. Hazel eyes, wary at first, warmed when he smiled, returning her gesture. One front tooth had a slight chip, she noticed, robbing him of male-model perfection.
“I wasn’t sure what dishes you liked, so I just ordered tea,” he said.
“I eat anything without meat.”
“That makes two of us.”
Interesting Walsh never mentioned that, though why should he? He had only referred to Winokaur in a hero-worship way, without defining their relationship.
Winokaur picked up the menu, perusing the lunch specials with great interest, but Tawny felt he could recite the dishes from column A and column B verbatim. This was breathing time.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you here,” he said, still studying the menu.
“Yes.”
“You know Mario Russo.”
It wasn’t a question. “You know I do. What is it you want, Agent Winokaur?”
“Call me Harry.”
“At the risk of sounding rude, I don’t want to
call you Harry. I’ve entered into a business arrangement with the NYPD and, in turn, the IRS. They have me in a vise. Now I have an ugly feeling the FBI is involved. Somehow I’m not disposed to feel chummy about this.”
“You’re getting chummy with an NYPD investigator, though.” He lifted his gaze from the menu and focused on her.
Tawny’s heart rate soared. Take a deep breath. “Is that what this is about?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
“I’m worried about sending you into Cooper’s establishment again.”
Tawny sipped her tea. “Why should it matter to the FBI? This isn’t your case.”
“It wasn’t until Mario Russo went there, and he is my concern.”
Tawny thought Winokaur had more to say, but he didn’t. “I can find out about Sarah Marshall, Agent Winokaur. I almost did the other night, and except for one woman, I would have. I found out about the missing woman, Cindi Dyson. I don’t understand. This is what Detective Walsh asked me to do. Why are you concerned?”
“First, there’s another body connected to Cooper’s establishment. What do they call it? I can never remember.”
“Upper Eighties.”
“That’s right. It’s located in the upper eighties, isn’t it?
She didn’t think that was a question either.
“The other body was the boyfriend of Cindi Dyson,” Winokaur said. “I’m sure Detective Walsh told you about it. He’s concerned. So am I.”
“You still have no proof anyone there killed him.”
“True, but he’s another connection to the place. Then, there’s Russo. Why did he go there, Ms. Dell, and on the same night you were there? I find that fascinating.”
“Are you implying his visit was connected to me?”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“Russo doesn’t need to go to Cooper’s place for a woman. From what I understand you weren’t the only visitor to his Park Slope hideaway. Then, of course, there’s the fact his accountant does your taxes.”
That admission stopped her. How did Winokaur know that? Was he guessing? Martell’s name wasn’t on her tax return. Had the feds found the other offshore accounts before he closed them down? No, Martell said they were safe, and now they weren’t hers anymore. So the FBI figured that Mario went to Cooper’s for another reason. Anything she said was a lose/lose answer. She didn’t respond.
“Nothing to say?”
No point denying Martell did her taxes. No law against that, and other than the one offshore account, the tax returns must have passed scrutiny or they’d have been all over her for tax fraud. “Even if Mario’s accountant did my taxes, and I’m not saying he did, is that against the law? Something I missed in the IRS manual?”
“The IRS didn’t find your money, Ms. Dell. They don’t have the resources to investigate offshore accounts. You came up in a different investigation. Maybe if we searched more thoroughly, we’d find others.”
What other investigation, she wondered. Why would her name come up? “Is this what’s called tightening the vise? Aren’t I doing everything Detective Walsh asked?”
He leaned across the table. The warmth in his eyes vanished, and Tawny saw the FBI agent, hard and resolute. “Yeah, and more, but I’d hate to see you get out of one mess and into another. For more reasons than you know.”
She knew. Winokaur wore his feelings on his face like a child caught in a lie, no matter how he tried to hide them. “I know you and Walsh have a connection. He’s more to you than an NYPD cop, isn’t he?” He froze, and Tawny knew she guessed right.
“What makes you ask?”
“The reverence in his tone when he spoke of you. The concern you have right now I’m about to screw up his life.”
The smile was warm again, a sign he was surprised but relieved. “I hadn’t planned on going there today, but it’s on the table now, isn’t it?”
Harry Winokaur was lying through his teeth. Maybe he hadn’t consciously planned on bringing up Lincoln Walsh, but Walsh was what he really wanted to talk about. The waiter came and Harry ordered stir-fried eggplant, Tawny fried tofu and vegetables. They agreed to share.
“How much do you know about Detective Walsh?” he asked her. “Has he ever talked about himself?”
She shook her head. “No. I found that strange. A man who didn’t think he was the most interesting subject in the universe.”
Winokaur smiled. “No, he definitely doesn’t think that. I’m going to fill you in, so you know the complexities you’re dealing with.”
“And you think I should know this why?”
“I’m a great judge of character, Ms. Dell. And I know my son.”
Tawny was taken aback. “Your…your son?”
“Not biologically, but as close as two men can be without DNA.”
The food came fast, even by Chinese restaurant standards. Both put some from each dish onto their plates. Winokaur asked the waiter for hot chili in oil.
“My wife and I had a son, Davey, our only child,” Harry said. “He died of leukemia when he was six. That was almost thirty years ago. We’d lived with the prospect of his death for a couple of years―hospitals, treatments, remissions and reoccurrences―but we were still devastated when it happened. A big black hole had dug its way into our lives and there was nothing to fill it. The hole kept getting bigger; my wife and I grew further apart. One day, a social worker friend from Upstate called. He had an eight-year-old boy who’d come into the system and needed a foster home. He explained the boy’s circumstances. I listened and talked it over with my wife.”
Tawny didn’t know why Winokaur was telling her the story, but she had an idea.
“Linc hadn’t been abused, more like neglected. No father. Mother a drug addict and a―”
Winokaur’s medium complexion reddened. She glanced at him. “You can say it. A prostitute.”
He nodded. “It was one of those cases where the child had become the parent, taking care of his sick mother. At the time, the police questioned whether she took her own life or someone helped her along, but they couldn’t prove anyone else was involved. The boy came home from school and found her, wrists slashed, blood everywhere.”
A flash of insight nearly blinded her. Tawny’s hand froze in midair, a tofu chunk perched between her chopsticks. “In the bathtub?”
“He did tell you.”
She sighed as she remembered Walsh’s reaction when he found her submerged in the tub. Tough life for a little kid. “No. It was a guess.”
Winokaur stared at her a long time before continuing. “He was a beautiful boy, on the scrawny side, angry and confused, more alone than he’d ever been. We were strangers. It took us a long time to gain his trust. He took a few detours during his teenage years, did a tour in the Marines, psychology in college. Took a lot of ribbing about the psychology from his co-workers. Linc tried to figure out all the ills in the world, tried to understand. We all know that’s not possible, but I always gave him an A for effort. All in all, he turned out okay, I think.”
Tawny learned more about Walsh in thirty seconds from Winokaur than she had from the detective in a few weeks. “He turned out fine,” Tawny said. “You should be proud.”
“When he decided on law enforcement, I was pleased. I tried to talk him into applying to the Bureau, but he wanted to be a cop and stay in New York. He was torn between Homicide and Special Victims. Turns out he straddles both, and he’s good. I didn’t like that he’d deal with sex crimes, considering his history, but I understood. He’s helped more than a few women. Not a zealot, mind you, but he’s tried to get them out of the business.”
“And then I came along, and he did exactly the opposite. He forced me back in it.”
“And then you came along.” Winokaur unconsciously stirred the food on his plate, captured a bit of eggplant in the chopsticks but didn’t eat it. “He worried at first about that, but a woman was dead, and Linc wanted her killer. He can be very
determined, but he rationalized it was a simple tradeoff, you for Sarah Marshall’s killer. Then I saw he wasn’t dealing with the situation very well. He was getting in over his head. With you.”
Tawny didn’t know what she was supposed to say―It’s a passing fancy? He’ll get over me? When he faces reality, he’ll come to his senses? Winokaur’s gaze lingered on her, waiting for a reply. She said nothing, put the suspended tofu in her mouth, and chewed slowly.
Winokaur returned to his lunch, but she could see he had about as much interest in eating as she did. After a few minutes, he said, “How do you feel about him?”
Given his personal connection with Walsh, she had half expected the question. “I’m doing a job. That’s all I’ve ever done. Walsh is no different to me than any man. Than you, for instance.”
“Excuse me for being blunt, Ms. Dell, but you’re full of shit. At the first mention of Linc’s name your cheeks turned as red as the satchel you’re carrying. Like I said, I’m a good judge of character.”
“Then let me put you straight and ease your mind. What do you think would happen to Walsh’s career if he and I rode off into the sunset? He’d be mocked, his fellow officers would think he’d lost his marbles, all because he got a hard-on for a whore. He’d be finished, and I’d be the cause. Do you think I could bear that responsibility?”
This time it was Winokaur who kept silent.
She played with the rice on her plate. “I’m not stupid. I’m going to do my job, and when I’m finished, you won’t have to worry about me messing up your son’s life. That’s what you really wanted to hear, isn’t it?”
Winokaur didn’t answer for a long moment. “I’m not sure what I wanted to hear. I do know this, though. For all his life, Linc has never had a serious relationship. He’s not a man who has problems attracting women; one look at him confirms that. But I’ve never noticed him taking an interest in any woman longer than a date or two, not that I’ve followed him around and checked his bed on Sunday mornings.
“I refuse to judge you. We all make choices. I want Linc to be happy. There’s always been a layer of melancholy deep inside him that nothing my wife or I did could lift. Whatever choice he makes, I’ll be behind him. The choice may not be one I’d make, but he’s not me, and I’m not him. He wouldn’t be the first cop to fall in love with a professional. If I’m being truthful, I’d prefer his choice not be you. We’re on the same page, Ms. Dell, so eat your lunch and relax.”