by Al Roker
I didn’t buy any of that, but it didn’t really matter. I undid the buttons of my shirt and showed her the transmitter taped to my chest.
She sighed and said, “So Felix will not be dying today after all.”
“Nobody will,” I said. “Time to come in, A.W.”
Lee continued to smile at me as we heard the click of the suite door unlocking.
A.W. entered the room, followed by the other InterTec agents, all with guns drawn. “Well, Billy,” he said, “that was some show.”
One of the agents knelt beside Aharon and Trina to check their vital signs. A.W. holstered his weapon and removed a set of cuffs from his coat pocket.
Lee put out her hands, but A.W. reminded her that company policy required behind-the-back cuffing.
While that was being accomplished, she continued to look at me. “Would it not be amusing, chef dear, if they find you guilty of murder and we wind up in the same prison?”
“I didn’t kill Rudy Gallagher,” I said.
“That makes two of us,” she said.
Chapter
SIXTY-FOUR
“Here’s to Chef Billy Blessing,” Detective Hawkline said, rising for the toast, “for helping us close at least three murder books.”
We were in my favorite of the Bistro’s private dining rooms, brightly lit by crystal chandeliers, with framed mirrors nearly covering the walls, a décor influenced by a stint I served at Galatoire’s in New Orleans. Two long tables, each running nearly the length of the room, had been joined in a U shape. Being of a humble nature, I’d elected to sit at the bottom of the U or the top of the table, depending on your point of view.
I’d planned the dinner to begin at eight, a multicourse affair built around haunches of venison soaked for twenty-four hours in a marinade of burgundy, brandy, and olive oil, crushed peppercorns, bay leaves, and cloves, and cooked for five hours.
We were, by and large, a cheery crowd, made even more so by predinner cocktails and wine. Gretchen and the commander were there, of course. And Marvin, whom I hardly recognized in a suit instead of his warm-up clothes, and his considerably younger wife, Celia. Trina, Arnie, and the on-camera team from Wake Up, America! were present, with the exceptions of Gin McCauley, who was still blissing out in Bermuda, and the boy-wonder movie critic Chuck Slater, who’d broken his leg that morning racing to work on his motorcycle.
Kiki arrived with a new beau, a junior executive with the wholesaler that distributes our sponsor, The Daily Brew coffee. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d steal her iPod, which could mean that their romance would be short-lived. My coproducer Lily Conover stepped into the room, took one look at Detective Hawkline, and said, “Billy, what a literary coup. A dinner party with Gertrude Stein.”
Goyal and A.W., who was now responsible for his security, showed up a little late. The new author had been flogging his book on the Stephen Colbert show, an experience he found so perplexing he demanded an immediate shot of Gold vodka to clear his head.
The only two participants not totally enjoying the evening were the NYPD’s finest, Solomon and Butker. Like Detective Hawkline, they’d been a bit miffed when they heard the full story of the kidnapping. But Hawkline more or less forgave the cover-up. Her investigation into the murders of both Gault and Parkhurst had been successfully closed by Lee’s arrest. On the other hand, Lee was continuing to claim neither she nor Ted had poisoned Rudy Gallagher, which meant that Solomon and Butker were still stuck with an open case.
“Not that I don’t appreciate a good feed, Blessing,” Solomon said when he and Butker arrived, “but I’m not sure why you insisted we show up here tonight. As suspects go, you’re not quite in the same league with this Franchette woman. But until she gives up on Gallagher, it’s probably inappropriate for us to be here.”
“For tonight at least,” I told him, “think of me as your host and not a murder suspect. Relax and enjoy the dinner. Please.”
From the look they exchanged, I suspected it was less my plea than the promise of a free venison feast that convinced them to take their seats at the table next to Detective Hawkline.
As the dinner progressed in stages, presented by our waitress, Bridget Innes, and a phalanx of busboys, the conversation drifted to a variety of subjects. A remark about the balmy evening resulted in a much-more-information-than-needed response from Wake Up!’s resident meteorologist, Professor Lloyd Sebastian. Lance Tuttle chatted with Marvin about the never-ending disclosures of steroid use by many of our highly respected professional athletes. Marvin idly wondered why there was so little time devoted to sporting events on the morning show. Lance, stumped for a reply, passed the question on to Gretchen, who suggested they “take a look at the demos and see who’s watching.”
Arnie emerged from his teen TV fanboy closet to engage Lily, an admitted fangirl, in a spirited discussion of the relative merits of Gossip Girl over the refurbished Beverly Hills 90210. Mrs. Marvin asked newswoman Tori Dillard if she was married and Tori replied, “Not exactly.”
And so it went. But as might be expected, eventually the talk of the table turned to Lee. Tori said that while driving to the dinner she’d heard that the question of jurisdiction had been raised. Lee, or Felix, or whatever her real name would turn out to be, was suspected of having committed murders in many countries, and each wanted the pleasure of putting her on trial.
“The dreadful woman should be tried, convicted, and incarcerated right here where she was caught,” the commander stated.
“I don’t know,” Trina said. “There are places in the Middle East where she’d be treated to a justice more appropriate to her crimes.”
“We can tie her to at least three murders in this city,” Detective Hawkline said. “My two and your former coworker, Mr. Bruno. That should be enough for us to hang on to her.”
“What was it exactly that made you suspicious of her, Billy?” Gretchen asked.
“I have Detective Solomon to thank for that,” I said, noting with amusement the surprise on his dour face, “and, not incidentally, for saving my life. Several hours before Lee planned to kill us, the detective and I had a chat. He used the term ‘put on blinders.’ That reminded me of something Lee said in the basement of the old mansion. She asked if I’d touched any of the materials the kidnappers had used to keep Gin McCauley bound, gagged, and sightless. She specifically mentioned ‘sleep masks.’ Later, Gin used the more general term ‘blindfold.’ I doubt she even knew she’d been wearing a sleep mask. And there was no possible way Lee could have known it at that particular moment, unless she’d been one of the kidnappers.”
“It’s the little stuff that catches the smarties,” Solomon said.
“Once I considered the possibility of Lee being Felix, I realized there were other signs that I’d been ignoring,” I said. “For a while I was dumb enough to think you were the assassin, Trina, and Lee tried to encourage that folly in several ways, including the planting of that paintball gun near your office. She also put together a report that indicated you were in the vicinity of most of Felix’s known assassinations.”
“I was collecting material on Felix,” Trina said. “The murders are what drew me to those places. In most cases, I arrived after the crimes had been committed. Maybe just hours after, but still …”
“The thing is, Lee also said that many of the victims had been InterTec clients. I think she told me this in case I happened to come across reports that placed her at Felix’s crime scenes, too. But the point is, she was there. And as the person responsible for security, she had both access and opportunity.
“Then there was the incident in the Tunnel that most of you know about. After sending me a written threat when I was doing a segment for the show on comic-book superheroes, she followed my car into the Lincoln Tunnel and did her best to involve me in an accident by shooting my driver and the windshield with a paintball gun. She wasn’t trying to kill me, just scare the hell out of me. She didn’t want to be recognized, so she got the pl
ayful idea of wearing a catlike comic-book costume. But the comic-book version of the character she was portraying wore a harlequin mask. The mask she wore covered her whole face and neck. I can think of only one reason for that. She wanted to hide the beautiful but distinctive color of her skin.
“And, finally, I remembered something that happened at the hospital. Lee moved near the handcuffed Ted Parkhurst, apparently to brush back his hair. When she did, his body jerked slightly. I should have realized the brushing motion had been a misdirection. The hand I wasn’t looking at administered the fatal injection, removing the only remaining associate who might be pressured to give her up.
“It was still all conjecture,” I said, “but I was spooked enough to bring my concern to A.W., who got me fixed up with a wire and kept the other agents on hand after Lee had dismissed them.”
“I don’t suppose she’s given up the name of the villain who was financing her?” the commander asked.
“Not as of three hours ago,” Detective Hawkline said.
“Of course we know who he is,” the commander said. “Carl Kelstoe. The bastard was ingratiating himself with certain morally bankrupt members of the so-called power elite by eliminating people perceived as troublesome to America.”
“But why were you on her list, Goyal?” Gretchen asked.
He looked at me. I’d told him about Farid Qedir, the Saudi who Lee had claimed was a former lover of Trina’s. But, of course, it had not been Trina’s story at all.
“An enmity as old as time,” he said, answering Gretchen’s question. “I doubt that anyone had to pay her to kill me.”
When dinner ended and the last bite of fresh fig-and-strawberry soufflé had been consumed, Bridget returned with busboys to clear the table. She took requests for after-dinner drinks, and I suggested she add a couple of pots of coffee to the list.
“Speaking of Kelstoe,” A.W. said, “there’s a secondary benefit he got from Felix’s work, the embarrassment of his closest rival. As you mentioned, Billy, InterTec was responsible for the safety of several of the victims. Every one of those deaths cost us goodwill points. And with a VP of ours exposed as the assassin Felix, the company stock’s in free fall.”
“And Kelstoe’s stock is on the rise,” the commander said.
“I thought the congressional committee found those Touchstone mercenaries guilty of starting that riot,” Lily said.
“They did,” the commander said. “But the bastard has simply changed the name of the company. And Wall Street is rewarding him for his duplicity.”
“Excuse me, folks,” Detective Solomon said, “but before this turns into a depressing discussion about Wall Street, I’ve got a question for Chef Blessing.”
“Shoot,” I said.
“What I gather from some of the people here tonight, you spent a lot of time with this Felix. Do you think she’s telling the truth when she says she didn’t kill Rudy Gallagher?”
Everybody was looking at me. Gretchen’s stare was particularly intense.
“It’s the truth,” I said. “She killed a lot of people, but she didn’t kill him.”
“How sure are you?”
“Sure enough,” I said. “That’s one of the reasons I invited you and Detective Butker here tonight.” I looked at Gretchen and said, “This might be a little rough, Gretch.”
“Don’t worry about me, Billy. I’ve shed my last tear for Rudy.”
I reached into my pocket and withdrew Rudy Gallagher’s little black book. I tossed it to Solomon, who snagged it with one hand.
“I’ve seen this before,” he said, flipping the pages. “So what?”
“It’s Gallagher’s.”
“You told me this was yours.”
“No. You assumed it was mine, and I didn’t correct that assumption.”
“I won’t argue the point,” he said. “So if it belonged to Gallagher, how’d you get it?”
“It was mixed in with some DVDs you guys allowed the network to remove from his apartment.”
“Don’t give me that. We wouldn’t have missed something like this.”
“You could and you did,” I said.
He stuck his lower lip out in a policeman’s pout and studied something in the black book. “Looks like Gallagher tore a couple pages out,” he said. “Rejects, huh?”
Gallagher hadn’t torn the pages. I had. Gretchen’s and Melody Moon’s. They wouldn’t be needed for my show-and-tell.
Bridget arrived with the drinks and the coffee. She moved along the table, placing the brandies and the cognacs, then made a more complete tour with the coffee carafe.
“Check the entry right before the last torn page,” I said to Solomon.
“Okay. Got it.”
“Read out the phone number.”
When he did, Bridget’s hand jumped and she spilled coffee on the tablecloth.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she said. “I just … sorry.”
“You look a little upset,” I said. “Maybe you should sit down for a minute. We can get you a chair.”
“I’m okay. I prefer to stand.”
“That was your phone number, wasn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The phone number the detective just read. It’s yours, right, Bridget?”
“The detective?” Her head jerked toward Solomon. “I wasn’t listening.”
Solomon read the number again.
“It’s mine.”
“So you knew Rudy Gallagher,” I said.
“Sure. He came in a lot.”
“And you went out with him.”
“Once or twice.”
“Didn’t you break off your romance with Juan because you thought you were in love with Rudy Gallagher?”
“No. Not at all. I’m still with Juan.”
“But you told me that you ended your affair with Juan because you’d found true love. ‘The heart knows what the heart needs,’ I think you said. Weren’t you talking about Rudy Gallagher?”
“No. It was … somebody else.”
“Who?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Where were you the night Rudy Gallagher was murdered?” I asked.
“I don’t … Here, I guess, working.”
“No. Cassandra says you felt ill and left early.”
“Right. Yeah. I remember now. I was sick one night. That night, I guess.”
“But not so sick you didn’t take one of the night’s specials home with you.”
“I’m sure I didn’t do that.”
“You were seen carrying the white bag.”
“Whoever says they saw me is mistaken.”
“That would be Juan. He likes to keep an eye on you, and he is very certain.”
“Well, he’s wrong.”
“Bridget, if Detectives Solomon and Butker were to go to your apartment right now, wouldn’t they find the cleansing liquid you used to poison Rudy Gallagher?”
“What? No. Of course not. I didn’t kill Rudy.” She was edging toward the door. “I was at my apartment. Sick.”
“We all can understand why you did it, Bridget. Rudy hurt you.”
“No. No, he didn’t. I barely knew—this is all wrong.”
Solomon and Butker were standing now, flanking the waitress.
“Thanks for the dinner, Blessing,” Solomon said. “I think we better take this young lady to where we can have a somewhat more official chat with her.”
Bridget’s face was chalk-white, her eyes locked on mine. “Help me,” she said. And as the detectives escorted her from the room, I really wished I could have.
Chapter
SIXTY-FIVE
There is nothing like the arrest of your waitress for murder to bring a dinner party to a close.
One minute the room was filled with people thanking me and saying good-bye. The next I was standing there alone with Gretchen, who had tears in her eyes.
She hugged me and kissed my cheek and whispered in
my ear, “Thank you, Billy. For the dinner, but especially for the closure.”
She stepped back and said, “You may not believe me, but my heart goes out to that poor girl.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?” I said.
As she made her exit, Cassandra entered the room, one eyebrow arched.
“The princess was sniffling,” she said. “Crocodile tears.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Clearly, you don’t,” she said. “Well, no one can say you don’t throw one hell of a party.”
“Thank you. I assume you know what just happened.”
“It is my job to know what happens here during the hours of operation.”
“The customers in the main room didn’t …”
“No. The detectives took her out the back way. You know there’s something you have to do now.”
I nodded. “I don’t suppose you could help—”
“As I’ve said a hundred times, I draw the line when it comes to HR issues.”
With that, she did an about-face. Considering the spikiness of her heel, I was a bit surprised she didn’t screw herself into the floor. I looked back at the empty, partially bused table and saw that there was one liqueur that someone—the commander, I think—had left untouched.
I picked it up and shot it, barely experiencing its syrupy kick.
Then I headed to the bar to tell Juan that the woman he loved had just been arrested for murdering Rudy Gallagher.
Chapter
SIXTY-SIX
Several weeks after that night of nights, I had just finished the Friday edition of Wake Up, America! when I received a phone call from Melody Moon.
It was good to hear from her, even better when she told me the reason she called.
She’d been playing Rudy’s old television shows and she’d found a CD mixed in with the DVDs. “It could be, like, a movie or TV soundtrack,” she said. “But it sounds pretty real. And one of the men has this soft voice, like Clint Eastwood’s, only much creepier, and he’s telling the other man he wants him to assist some … I hate the word, ‘bitch,’ but that’s what he said … some bitch he’d hired who was coming to the other man’s military base to kill an Army officer.