by Al Roker
Well, the old man’s consigliere Marvin had only recently told him about Felix. Maybe, in spite of what he’d said to the contrary, the commander had thought I’d killed Rudy. A lot of people did. Was that the point of using a Bistro meal to kill Rudy? To send the cops toward me and away from Kelstoe?
So many questions.
I opened the drawer to my left and got out Rudy’s little black book to see if it might provide any answers.
Judging by a date scribbled on the third entry, he’d started this particular record of his horndog adventures just three years before. Of its two hundred pages, one hundred and eighty were filled with scribbled entries. Two to a page. Approximately one hundred and twenty women a year. Talk about your multitasker.
Gretchen Di Voss’s “G.D.V.” entry was near the end. My guess was it had been added approximately four months ago. That’s about when Gretch, to use her term, became his “back-door romance.”
There were thirty-six entries after Gretchen’s. At the rate the Love Shepherd had been gathering his flock, as many as twenty-five or twenty-six little lambs could have made it into the book before the Gretch-Gallagher relationship had blossomed into what she’d assumed to be its monogamous affianced stage. That left ten or so post-fiancée flings.
I scanned those initials. M.M., Melody Moon, was the second to last, right after S.Y., H.H. and B.I. But unlike the other entries, Melody’s had no ratings. Instead, Rudy had drawn a dark line through that section of the page. Indicating what? That he hadn’t slept with her? He had. Melody wouldn’t have lied about that. That she hadn’t been worth rating? Doubtful, since he had continued to court her and was considering marrying her. Maybe he’d felt she was too special to rate? More special than Gretchen?
In that case, why was there one entry after Melody’s?
I gave it another look and realized it wasn’t an entry at all. It was a message from Rudy to himself: Call C.K. after nine. Not Clark Kent, I assumed. Nor Craig Kilborn, or any other C.K. except the most obvious one. Two telephone numbers were listed.
I flipped back through the book but could find only ratings. That he’d started using the pages for notes was probably another indication that he’d convinced himself Melody was the One.
I picked up the phone and dialed the first of C.W.’s numbers: 212-744-1600. Even before I’d hit the final “0,” I knew who’d be answering.
“This is the Hotel Carlyle. Good evening.”
“Sorry, wrong number,” I said. I pressed the disconnect for a few seconds and then tried the second number. “We’re sorry, but you’ve dialed a number that is no long—”
I hung up the phone.
The Carlyle. It wouldn’t be hard to find out if Kelstoe had been staying there the night of Rudy’s death … whoa. What was I thinking? This was exactly the sort of thing that would put me back on Felix’s hit list, assuming I’d ever left.
I replaced the black book into the drawer for what seemed like the hundredth time and picked up the bottle of wine. Still two-thirds full. Polish it off or have dinner? Finally a decision I could make.
I had the beefsteak plate delivered from the kitchen. With potatoes au gratin and petit pois. It was a dish I loved, comfort food, but because of my mood, I was working my way through it listlessly when A.W. arrived and took the chair across the desk from me.
He seemed so energized, it picked me up a little.
“That was the best meal I’ve had in months,” he said. “The combination of meat and oyster was brilliant. Reminded me of M.K.F. Fisher’s essays about the oyster, which I guess you’ve read.”
“To be honest, I haven’t really read as much of Ms. Fisher as I should,” I said. “And I sort of stole the idea of squab and oysters. But the sauce is mine.”
“The sauce? Awesome! Melted butter, of course. Vinegar. Minced shallots. Pepper. Beef stock?”
“Close enough,” I said. “Unsalted butter and defatted meat drippings. What else?”
“A dry white wine and, I don’t know, something briny I couldn’t quite … maybe anchovies?”
“Caviar,” I said, carving a forkful of beefsteak. “It was thoughtful of InterTec to send me a cross between Vin Diesel and Bobby Flay.”
“Too much hair for one and too little talent for the other,” he said. “But I love to eat. And I do a little cooking.”
“How’d you wind up in the security game, A.W.?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“Seriously,” I said.
“I was an MP in Yemen when the USS Cole got bombed,” he said. “That’ll give you an idea of how well loved we were in that part of the world. Anyway, I just happened to be in the right place to help a car full of embassy workers avoid being captured by terrorists. This CNN reporter interviewed me, and a day later I got a job offer from a guy named Ken Foster at InterTec.
“I told him I had another year to go on my tour of duty and I was thinking of re-upping. But after the Towers came down and Bush started his war in what seemed to me to be the wrong place, I figured it was time to get my butt out of uniform. With Ken’s help, I managed to free up at the end of my tour, even as some of my buddies were being hit with mandatory reenlistments.”
“Foster a big dog at InterTec?” I asked.
“He was my supervisor, in charge of domestic assignments,” A.W. said. “He had a heart attack behind the wheel and drove his Lexus into a wall three months ago. A good man and a good friend.”
He stared down at the carpet.
Nice job, Billy, I thought. Now he’s as bummed out as you. Way to go!
“This is pretty good wine,” I said. “Have a glass.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “On the job.” He checked his wristwatch and stood. “I’d better check on the lock guy’s progress,” he said. “Then I’ll take a quick tour, just to see if anything looks hinky.”
In the time it took me to finish my dinner and have another glass of Beaujolais, he was back. Rushing in, a little flushed.
“Something going on?” I asked.
“No. It’s all fine.” He was pacing back and forth. “The locks and the alarm are finished. He tested the silent alarm and it worked. I didn’t think you wanted your customers to be disturbed by the non-silent.”
“Definitely not.”
“So it’s all good.”
I looked at him expectantly, waiting for whatever the other shoe was to drop.
“Billy, is Cassandra … hooked up with anybody?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “But I’m not sure you want to go there.”
“Why not?” he asked, sitting down. “She’s beautiful. And she’s got a great sense of humor.”
I stared at him. “I’m with you on the beautiful thing, but humor …”
“Just now, a guy was leaving the bar and he stopped to ask her what it would take for her to come back to his hotel room with him. And she said, ‘A lobotomy.’ Tell me that’s not hilarious.”
I had to admit it was funnier than her usual two-word reply.
“Any objection if I ask her out?”
“That’s really not my call,” I said. “But it might be smarter for you to wait until our business is finished. Otherwise it could get complicated. Especially if it doesn’t work out and you end up killing either her or yourself.”
“Right. I get it,” A.W. said, very serious now. “So until we’re clear, it’s okay if Cassandra and I just … talk?”
It occurred to me at that moment that he and Cassandra might not be such an odd match after all.
Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN
The next day was relatively uneventful, at least until nightfall. After that, well …
I didn’t wake up until nine-twenty-five a.m., so I’m not sure Ms. Noor, who begrudgingly allowed me to call her Bettina, arrived at five-forty, but knowing her, I assumed she did. As I emerged, showered and shaved, from my bedroom suite, she was in the hall, sitting on a chair she’d taken from the guest
room, pinning me with her dark-brown critical eyes.
She was listening to music or news or, for all I know, a Bollywood soundtrack, via an MP3 player. The device, I later suspected, was like the book I always took with me on commercial flights, an excuse to avoid conversation.
She followed me, two paces back, as I went downstairs for a breakfast of a smoked salmon, onion, and capers omelet, two slices of toast, and two cups of fully caffeinated coffee, dark as sin. She refused to join me in anything but the coffee, which she had the good grace to say was delicious.
She continued following me on my power walk and on my quest for Traditional Fit Boxers at Brooks Brothers on Madison Avenue. She followed me to the Village, where, in a little hole-in-the-wall tobacco store that will not be named, I purchased an illegal box of Cuban cigars for a friend. There she faltered, in a room so filled with cigar smoke that a gas mask should have been required. But she stuck to the task, saying not a word.
At the Bistro, while I devoured a roast-beef sandwich, she settled for a mixed green salad. Dry. Okay, I can understand her refusing the dressings we have, since most had been made with some dairy product or other. But she also gave oil and vinegar a thumbs-down. No point in enjoying anything, right?
Shortly after two p.m., my cellular played its little tune—the first several notes of “The 1812 Overture,” if you must know. No personal significance, just happened to be on the phone when I bought it.
The sound of the first note put Bettina on alert. She got up from her chair and approached the desk. I picked up the phone, clicked it open, and said hello.
“Hi, Billy,” Ted Parkhurst said. “Just calling to thank you for taking care of me Wednesday evening.”
“Don’t give it a thought,” I answered, smiling to let Bettina know the call was from a friend, not a foe. “You and Gin okay?”
“So far so good,” he said. “What about you? I understand, via the WBC grapevine, that you were attacked yesterday.”
“Paintballed. Joe and the car took the brunt of it.”
He’d heard pretty much the whole story of my adventure from Gin, of course, who’d heard about it from Gretchen or maybe Trina.
“Think it was Felix?” Ted asked.
“Probably,” I said. “What are you and Gin up to tonight?”
“What we’ve been up to the last two nights,” he said. “She’s working on her interview with Goyal Aharon like a brainiac studying for a final. And I’m watching bad TV.”
“If you guys can break away, have dinner with me here at the Bistro.”
“We’ll break away,” he said. “Eight okay?”
“Perfect.”
I closed the phone and stared at Bettina. “What are you listening to?” I asked.
“An audiobook,” she said, unblinking. Poker-faced. “It’s a fascinating study of why some people succeed and others don’t.”
“Sounds like something I should read,” I said.
“It may be too late for you,” she said.
Chapter
THIRTY-EIGHT
That night, romance was definitely in the air at the Bistro. An engagement party was occupying one of the larger private rooms, with a mainly young crowd celebrating the prospective bride and groom with drinks and laughter. In the bar, I spied Juan and Bridget staring starry-eyed at each other while she awaited her cocktail orders. And A.W. seemed to have mistaken his purpose for being on the premises, spending more time guarding Cassandra’s body than mine.
Gin and Ted arrived at eight on the dot.
I’d decided we would dine in the small room upstairs at the front of the building, where, if a table is placed in exactly the right spot, the diners might get a glimpse of moonlight on the Hudson through the surrounding buildings.
Ted and I had duck breast with port sauce, and Gin, weight-watching, settled for scallops sautéed with garlic and herbs. I was happy to note that Ted’s condition on Wednesday had been a one-shot. Gin and I were doing the lion’s share of the wine drinking.
We were sipping after-dinner coffees when she asked, “Who’s that big blond guy who’s been pokin’ his head through the door every twenty minutes?”
“My bodyguard,” I said. I was feeling full and satisfied and considerably mellowed by more than a few glasses of French red Rhône.
“Then everything I’ve been hearin’ is true,” Gin said. “The guy who killed Rudy and Phil is now gunning for you.”
“At this point, the only gun has been loaded with paintballs,” I said. “If Felix really wanted to kill me, I’d be in a wooden box by now. So I don’t know if I’m worried or not.”
“Billy,” Ted said, “I’m going to need some quotes from you for the piece I’m writing.”
“I’m not that drunk,” I said. “In fact, everything I say from now on about anything is off the record.”
“I thought we were pals.”
“We are. And because of that, I don’t think it’s healthy for you to pursue this piece on Rudy’s murder. In fact, you probably need a bodyguard more than I do.”
“What are you talking about?” Ted said.
“Keep turning over Rudy’s bones and you’ll eventually catch the attention of some nasty people. If you haven’t already.”
“Meaning what?”
“Nothing you don’t know,” I said. “Three of the guys who were at your table at that Irish pub in Kabul are dead. That leaves just you and the other two Touchstone guards.”
Ted brushed the hair from his forehead. He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind.
“What?” I asked.
“I found out yesterday. Fredricks was killed in a sniper attack. Okay, I’m scared now. Billy, if you’ve got any idea what the hell is going on, tell me. Off the fucking record, if that’s how you want it.”
“That’s how I want it,” I said, and told him what I’d learned from the commander about Rudy’s mission and what I’d surmised.
“You’re saying Carl Kelstoe hired the infamous Felix the Cat to kill Rudy,” Ted said, brushing his hair back from his eyes for the hundredth time that night.
I nodded.
“Why murder Phil Bruno?” Gin asked. “And why threaten you?”
“I can’t figure the Phil connection,” I said. “He taped Hall passing something to Rudy in the Irish pub. But I don’t see how Kelstoe or anybody else would have known about that. Phil himself hadn’t been aware of what he’d shot until he and I discovered it two nights before his murder. And I don’t know why that video would have made Kelstoe nervous enough to turn Felix loose on Phil.”
“Maybe Felix had his own reason,” Ted said. “Phil was in Kabul for several days. From what I’ve heard about Felix, nobody knows what he looks like. What if he just happened to step into one of Phil’s pan shots and wanted to make sure nobody ever saw that footage?”
“Not bad,” I said.
“And let’s say Felix has been stalking Phil and saw him with you,” Ted said. “That would have put you on Felix’s list, too.”
“Lucky me.”
“Maybe ah’m missin’ something,” Gin said, “but assuming Felix set fire to Phil’s building to destroy all of his tapes and films, why didn’t he set fire to Rudy’s building? Why’d he go to all the trouble of poisoning Rudy’s food? And how’d he get the food, anyway, Billy? Wouldn’t that mean that Felix had to come to this restaurant, buy the dinner, treat it with poison, and then get Rudy to let him into his condo with it? How did he get into Rudy’s building without the security camera picking him up or the doorman seeing him?”
“Here are some of the answers,” I said. “I’ve been told that when Rudy was expecting a visitor and he didn’t want the guard or the camera to notice, he’d leave the building’s alley service entrance unlocked. Let’s say that night he was expecting Carl Kelstoe with the cash to purchase the recordings. Felix picked up the dinner from here, doctored it, and handed it off to Kelstoe, who made a gift of it to Rudy.”
“Or Felix went
in Kelstoe’s place,” Ted said. “Rudy lets him in and surprise, surprise! Felix takes the so-called evidence and, instead of paying Rudy money, forces him to eat the poisoned food.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “According to the detectives, Rudy ate quite a lot of the dinner and washed it down with wine. Doesn’t sound like he was forced.”
“Another thing the cops told us,” Gin said, “the killer trashed Rudy’s apartment. Like he was looking for something. So maybe Rudy died without telling Felix or Kelstoe or whoever where the recordings were. And they tried to find ’em. And maybe they didn’t.”
Thanks to my brush with the fake cop, I tended to agree with “didn’t.” What I still found puzzling was the sequence of events on the night of the murder.
Rudy had an appointment to meet someone who was going to make it possible for him to quit WBC and marry Melody. That someone—probably Carl Kelstoe or Felix—purchased the food from the Bistro, poisoned it. Rudy was expecting a visitor, had told the visitor about the unlocked alley door. Had trusted the visitor enough to devour the food that was brought. For some reason the visitor had left after his death. When Gretch arrived, the place was still relatively in order. But when the cops showed up the next day, it was a mess.
I couldn’t think of a reason why Gretch would lie about the condition of the apartment, even if she had killed Rudy because he’d been unfaithful. That left only three possible conclusions:
1. Whoever poisoned Rudy didn’t know or care about the recordings, and, consequently, whoever cared about the recordings arrived after his death and after Gretchen’s visit to trash-search the place. Or …
2. Whoever killed Rudy and cared about the recordings was in the condo when Gretchen arrived and waited for her to leave to trash-search the place. Or …
3. Whoever killed Rudy cared about the recordings but for some unknown reason left the apartment and came back later for the trash-search.
“Well, what about it, Billy?” Gin said. Her face was flushed, eyes glistening. I’d evidently tuned out of the conversation.