Fatal Deception

by Russell Blake

  Because if he didn’t, they were back to square one. And their killer was still at large, planning his next abomination.

  Chapter 22

  Morning sun warmed the terrace off the breakfast nook of the brownstone as Jeremy and Elizabeth sat enjoying their morning coffee, he reading the financial pages of the Wall Street Journal, she the New York Sun. A daily ritual for bonding, Jeremy and Elizabeth sipped their rich brew with satisfaction, Chopin playing in the background. The tykes were still asleep upstairs, there being no school on the weekend.

  “Oh, isn’t that a shame,” Elizabeth said.

  Jeremy looked over his paper with a quizzical expression. “What?”

  “They’re talking about raising subway fares again. Mrs. Savan will be furious, and we’ll have to give her a raise.” Mrs. Savan was their housekeeper, charged with attending to the children and keeping the home spick and span.

  “Let’s wait until she asks for one. Sends the wrong message if we offer,” Jeremy observed.

  “Probably right. Give them an inch, and they’ll take your whole arm.”

  They laughed easily together, and Jeremy went back to his reading as Elizabeth skimmed her sensationalistic news. She paused as she read from back to front, as was her custom, and took a small bite of the croissant she’d bought fresh that morning from a nearby French bakery.

  “I was thinking, honey,” Elizabeth said. “Should we be looking at a Cape Cod beach cottage before the prices get too silly? I was talking with Zoe yesterday, and she feels that there’s going to be another leg up soon.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “I don’t know. The market feels kind of toppy to me. I’d rather be late than wrong on that one.”

  “Well, they aren’t making more oceanfront.”

  “True. Too bad the Hamptons have gotten so expensive. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You said that five years ago, too,” she chided.

  “I was right then, and right now. As soon as the Chinese and Arab money stops pouring in, there’s going to be a come-to-Jesus, you watch.”

  “I’m sure there will be,” Elizabeth said, preferring not to argue with Jeremy about financial matters. He was always so serious about his money, which she supposed went with the territory, given his job.

  “What do you have planned for today?”

  “Oh, don’t you remember? There’s a meeting for the opera guild fundraiser committee: lunch at the Tavern on the Green. I have Mrs. Savan coming at eleven to babysit.”

  “I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

  “What are you going to do, with me out of your hair?”

  “I’m afraid I have to go into the office. We’ve got some rather delicate negotiations scheduled for next week, and I want to make sure everything’s perfect. These are really big clients. Sovereign wealth funds.”

  Elizabeth didn’t follow all the technical jargon he used, but she understood the rough meaning – if he landed the clients, there would be another big payday come bonus time. “That’s wonderful. I’m sure you’ll do well. After all, there’s nobody smarter.”

  They resumed their reading. When Elizabeth got to the front page, she drew a sharp intake of disapproving breath.

  “Oh, that’s horrible. How can people behave in such a ghastly manner?”

  “What is it?” Jeremy asked.

  “A ballerina was killed by that Rose fellow. Imagine that. As if the poor things don’t have it hard enough.”

  Jeremy looked over his paper at her, his expression neutral. “Really? When?”

  “It says the video hit yesterday.”

  “This town’s getting more dangerous by the day. What company was she with?”

  “American Ballet Company. Oh – that reminds me! I signed up to be one of the volunteers for their ‘Nutcracker’ drive. Damn. I hope this doesn’t affect ticket sales. That’s all we need.”

  “Anyone you know?”

  “No. I don’t recognize the name. Dakota something. Must be new.”

  Jeremy’s right eye twitched almost imperceptibly, and he lowered his head again. “Well, I hope everything will be fine. I know how hard you work on these philanthropic events. It would be a lot easier to just donate money.”

  “I know, but it gives me something to do. After all, there are only so many yoga and Pilates classes you can do before you throw up your hands.”

  “That’s my girl,” Jeremy said, engrossed behind his pages. Moments later he finished and stood. “Kiss the little ones for me. I want to hit the ground running today.”

  “The firm doesn’t realize how lucky they are to have you, going in on a Saturday like this.”

  “Yes, well, half the floor will be there as well. That’s just life in the big leagues.”

  “Have a good day, sweetheart. Remember we have dinner at Nobu at seven thirty with the Lancasters.”

  “Oh, damn, I completely forgot. I don’t suppose I could step in front of a bus to get out of it, could I?”

  “Not this time. You canceled the last one.”

  Bob’s voice called from the living room. “Keep it down, would you? I’m trying to sleep.”

  Jeremy bristled, but a warning glance from Elizabeth was enough to stop him from escalating the exchange. As he made for the hallway, though, he whispered to her, “I want him out of here, Elizabeth. Next week. Promise me.”

  “Let’s discuss it later, dear.”

  Jeremy’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond, choosing to stalk to the front door, which slammed as he left. Elizabeth looked up at the loud bang and shook her head.

  Jeremy could be so moody sometimes.

  Chapter 23

  Ron nodded to the uniformed officer standing outside the holding cell, who had brought DJ Endo from the drunk tank after what the desk sergeant described as a “very rough night.” Ron had requested that he be put in with the scariest miscreants the precinct had to offer, and the sergeant had obliged, always happy to do homicide a solid.

  “How’s he doing?” Ron asked.

  “Smells like the floor of a truck-stop urinal. Looks a little worse than one.”

  “Good,” Ron said, sipping from his cup of fast-food drip. “Open up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  DJ Endo looked up at the sound of the door opening and threw Ron an ugly glare as he strode in and sat across from him. Ron savored another taste of his coffee and returned the dark look, and then checked his watch, underscoring that this was to be a short meeting indeed.

  “Okay, DJ Shitbird, you think it over? You going to cooperate, or do we rake you over the coals?” Ron asked in a reasonable tone.

  “I been thinking. None a this will hold up.”

  Ron chuckled and shook his head. “Has it occurred to you that I haven’t asked you anything about the bust? Fleeing from a cop, possession of ten hits of oxy, none of it? Want to know why?”

  Endo looked confused, so Ron continued.

  “Because we have you dead to rights. Your prints all over the dope. Two witnesses to it being in your possession. To you running and trying to evade arrest. I don’t need to ask you anything about that to put you away for good. But listen up. At the point I book you for dealing, you won’t be asked anything by anyone. My deal offer will be off the table. You’ll be going up the river for the drug charge, and if I have my way, on accessory to homicide – and even if you got down on your hands and knees and begged me to listen to what you had to say, I wouldn’t.” Ron paused. “Get this through your thick skull: we have you cold on the dope. You’re going to do the full weight of the charge, and Rikers will make what you went through last night look like a trip to Cancun.”

  Endo sulked as he absorbed Ron’s words. “What you want to know?”

  “Dusty. You were pimping for her. I want to know what she was into. When you last saw her. Who she was working for – who the john was.”

  “And I tell you that, you let me off?”

  “If it checks out. Bullshit me, and I’ll bury you.”

 
; “When you say Dusty got killed?”

  “Last Friday night.”

  “Awright. She was working a party along with some other girls. Out in Connecticut. Big swinging dick’s place.”

  “A party, huh? You set it up?”

  “I gave the ladies a ride. Tha’s all.”

  “So you dropped them off, or you hung around and played some jams?”

  “Dropped ’em off. That kind of place, they don’t let people like me in. ’Specially not for one of those gigs.”

  “What kind of gig was it?”

  “Serious S&M shit. Makes the party you busted me at look like kindergarten. You name it, they was into it, you know?”

  “And Dusty worked those?”

  “Girl was loco, do anything for a buck. High as a kite most of the time, but she’d put on a show if the money right.”

  “How much did she get paid?”

  “Ten grand.”

  Ron’s eyes registered shock. “For how many hours?”

  Endo shrugged. “Three.”

  “I’m in the wrong line of work.”

  “Yeah, well, you probably wouldn’t be into what she was.”

  “Who was the client?”

  “I tell you the name, we done, right?”

  “You tell me the name, and it’s not a lie, we’re done. Who is he? Time’s wasting.”

  “Dude named Charles Stibling. Used to run money on the street. Old dude, but seriously twisted.”

  Ron wrote the name down, along with the address Endo gave him. “That was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yeah. After that, I drove to the airport. Had a gig in Vegas for two nights. That’s why I ain’t been around.”

  “What airline and flight?”

  DJ Endo gave him the information. “Stayed at the Palms. You can check.”

  “I intend to. What time did you drop Dusty off?”

  “Around nine.”

  “Who were the other girls?”

  “I only know their street names. Chloe and Sabrina.”

  “They work for you exclusively?”

  “I ain’t no pimp. I just help the ladies out, you know?”

  “Right. You help them out a lot?”

  “Only for this kind a thing. They too unreliable. Wasted all the time.”

  Ron noted the names in his notebook. “Where can I find them?”

  “Might have their numbers. Ain’t got my phone.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “I can check when I get home.”

  Ron stood. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Nuh-uh. That’s it, man.”

  “I need you to testify that you dropped her off at this Charles Stibling’s house, that’s part of the deal.”

  Endo shook his head vigorously. “Man got a reputation as a badass. Wouldn’t want him after me, you know?”

  “Rikers has a reputation, too. Which do you think would be worse? Assuming you believed he couldn’t get to you behind bars – double whammy.”

  “Why you bagging on me like this? I tol’ you all I know.”

  “Because that’s the nature of the beast, Juan. You’re a scumbag dope fiend and a pimp. I’m a cop. I eat dirt like you for breakfast, just for practice.”

  “Ain’t right.”

  “Life isn’t fair.”

  Ron moved to the door and rapped twice. When it opened, he nodded to the uniform. “Keep him in here. Get him some breakfast. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Ron checked his messages on his cell as he made his way to the elevator, and saw one from the captain that was the essence of brevity: My office when you get in. Ron sighed. The captain knew he’d be working seven days a week on the case, so he’d be on call – there was no way to dodge the meeting. He phoned in Stibling’s name and address to Ben, who was already at his desk, and asked him to pull all information while Ron was occupied.

  Once in the elevator, Ron punched the button for the top floor and waited as the contrivance whisked him to the administrative offices, where the captain was sitting behind his desk, wearing a white polo shirt and golf slacks.

  “Come on in. Mayor wants me to call so we can update him. Then, the FBI,” Larraby said by way of welcome.

  “I’ve got a hot lead I’d rather not sit on.”

  “This will only take a few minutes. It’s not optional, Ron. Sorry.” Larraby looked at him hard. “What’s your hot lead?”

  “I’ve got a witness who can put the second victim at a sex party the night of the murder. The lead’s the name of the guy who threw it.”

  The captain’s eyebrows rose. “Really? That’s great news.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He sounds pretty connected.”

  “Nobody’s too connected on a case like this.”

  “I hope not.”

  The speakerphone warbled, and the mayor’s voice came over the line. Larraby gave him a quick preamble and then Ron offered a brief summary of what he’d learned. When the mayor heard Stibling’s name, he took the call off speaker on his end and the background noise faded.

  “Charles Stibling?” the mayor repeated. “That’s absurd. The man’s an icon, Stanford. Above reproach.”

  “I have him cold as hiring the second victim for his party.”

  “There must be some mistake. He’s…he’s got to be seventy if he’s a day.”

  Ron and Larraby exchanged a glance. “Sounds like you know him,” Ron said.

  “Of course I do. I was at a benefit last night, and he was there. You’re treading on very dangerous ground, Stanford. He’s got more juice than the President.”

  “A young woman was systematically dismembered and decapitated the night she worked his orgy, Mayor. He’s our only lead, and I have to pursue that. I’m sure you understand.”

  The mayor’s voice softened to a whisper. “Be extremely careful, Stanford, or it’ll be your ass.”

  “That sounds like a threat, Mr. Mayor.”

  “It isn’t. It’s a prediction.”

  The call ended and Ron made for the door. “Sounds like it’s going to be a race to get to this character before a little bird gives him a warning call and he’s lawyered up,” Ron said.

  “I don’t think the mayor would do that.”

  Ron grimaced. “He’s a politician. Guys like Stibling buy them by the dozen. Of course he’ll call him. Question is how long it takes him to decide to.”

  Larraby looked even unhappier than usual. “Do what you have to do, Ron.”

  “I intend to.”

  Chapter 24

  Ben drove Ron uptown to Charles Stibling’s Park Avenue apartment, where they’d decided they had the best shot at finding him, given that he’d been in the city late the prior evening at the function with the mayor. Ben had done a quick rundown on Stibling’s properties and had come up with the home in Connecticut and the apartment from the tax records.

  A doorman in an impeccable double-breasted gray wool uniform frowned at them when Ben parked the unmarked cruiser in the loading zone in front of the building and they exited the sedan.

  “Can’t park there,” the doorman said stiffly.

  Ron flipped out his badge. “Yes, we can. We’re looking for one of the residents. Charles Stibling. Is he here?”

  The doorman’s expression didn’t change. “I couldn’t say.”

  “I asked you a direct question.”

  “I’m not hard of hearing. But I came on duty this morning. I have no idea which tenants are in their apartments and which aren’t.”

  “What number is his? We’ll go take a look.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. I can call for you and see whether he’s in.”

  Ron glanced at Ben, who took two steps toward the annoying man. “Listen, buddy. We’re cops, and we asked you a direct question in the course of a homicide investigation. You’re a doorman. You don’t tell us where we can and can’t go, do you understand? Now what floor and apartment is Stibling’s?”

  The doorman blanched.
“I have to check with my boss.”

  “No, you don’t. Floor and number. Now.”

  The man looked away. “Mr. Stibling’s in seven C.”

  Ron nodded. “See? That wasn’t so hard. But what will be is if you call and warn him that we’re on our way up. Then it could get very, very ugly for you. Follow?”

  “Threats are unnecessary.”

  “Then stay off the phone until we get back.”

  They brushed past the doorman and approached the golden doors of an art deco elevator. When Ben depressed the button, an old-fashioned dial ticked down from the fourth floor. The doors slid open, revealing a marble-floored interior with a mini crystal chandelier.

  “Must be nice to be one of the one percent,” Ron said as they rode the elevator up.

  “Point oh one percent, I bet. This thing’s worth more than my condo.”

  They stepped out of the elevator into a wood-paneled hall that was wide enough to drive a truck through, and made for one of three apartments on that level. Ron’s knock echoed in the corridor and they waited, ears straining for any hint of movement inside the apartment.

  A woman’s voice called from behind the oversized door a few moments later. “Yes?”

  “Police. Is Charles Stibling there?”

  No answer. Ron knocked again, this time louder.

  “Mr. Stibling isn’t seeing visitors,” the voice called after a long pause.

  “We’re not visitors. We’re the police, and seeing us isn’t optional. Open the door.”

  “I…”

  “Lady, open the door right now.” Ron was exceeding his authority, with no warrant, but he was getting sick of being treated like a deliveryman by the hired help.

  Thirty seconds went by and a male voice spoke through the door. “Let’s see your badges, gentlemen.”

  Ron held his up so that it could be seen through the peephole, and then Ben did the same. Two deadbolts snapped unlocked and the door eased open. A tall man with the predatory gaze of a hawk stared at them with steel gray eyes, his blue silk smoking jacket something out of a Bogart film. “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped.