“You didn’t go after her?”
“It’s not that kind of a program, and I’m not that kind of a guy.” Ostergate’s voice seemed to give in to a bone-deep tiredness. “I nagged her about her coke habit. She lied about it, and by lying she made it clear she wasn’t ready for AA.”
“Tell me about her coke habit.”
“Her per-diem habit would have cost …” Ostergate’s fingers seemed to be tapping out abacus movements on his knee. “Three hundred dollars. But Nan got it wholesale. She had connections in the industry.”
“What can you tell me about her connections?”
“I didn’t ask, I didn’t want to know. Far as I was concerned that was between her, God, and the cops. I told her she had to get out of the coke business—told her she’d never beat her addiction if she was peddling it to other people.”
Ostergate was silent for one shadowed moment, and the air seemed to vibrate with his dislike of what this woman had come to represent in his life.
“But she had a whole head trip about her East Side apartment and her life-style, and being a single mother and owing the kid a decent life. To Nan, decency was a private kindergarten and designer playclothes. She had a lot of expenses and she had no skills and she didn’t want to learn any. So she stayed in the dope-peddling business. She tried to kick coke, but naturally, dealing it all the time, she couldn’t.”
For a moment Ostergate’s gaze touched Cardozo, as though they both knew all eighty-nine flavors of human weakness.
“She must have had a hundred coke slips in a hundred days. After the hundred first, I told her to change professions or get her ass out of my life. This was maybe a year ago. I never saw her again—never heard her name again—till you phoned.”
“Did you ever meet her kid?”
“Never.”
“Ever see her apartment?”
“She’d visit me here or meet me in a coffee house, but as you can see, I’m a pretty casual dresser—I don’t think she wanted to take the chance that anyone who counted might see a slob like me going into her apartment.”
Luddie Ostergate’s dress didn’t look all that casual to Cardozo: a sport shirt that had been machine washed often enough to have softened to pale designer blue, gray cotton trousers that were supposed to have the wrinkled look and did, athletic socks, unadorned brown loafers that matched the brown leather belt. Cardozo would have called the look careful casual. It would have set you back a lot at Barney’s, not so much at the Gap.
“Was Nan actually in with any society types?”
Ostergate smiled. “She wanted to think she was. She applied herself to it. She was a real networker. As in tireless. Nan was the kind of woman who went to funerals of prominent people she’d never even met, and shook every hand in the church. And I think she actually got a few invitations out of it. I remember once she was scheduled to speak at a meeting, and she canceled at the last moment because some social star had invited her to coffee.”
“Coffee?” Cardozo said.
“That’s right. Not dinner. Coffee after dinner. A lot of times. Coffee after dinner.”
“Think she was dealing coke at these dinners?”
Ostergate sat a moment in cool, smiling cynicism. “In all the months I knew her, Nan was never not dealing coke. Meetings she had the decency not to deal at. But there was always some deal going down in Beekman Place or Sutton Place or some club where your ancestors had to have sailed a deck on the Mayflower.”
“I don’t suppose you take notes when someone you’re sponsoring talks to you.”
“No, nothing like that. Usually it’s just shit they need to ventilate—the sooner it’s out and forgotten, the better.”
Ostergate seemed to live simply: no art treasures hung on his walls, his furnishings made no designer statement. The most expensive object in the room was probably the computer set up on a worktable: it looked to Cardozo like a twin of the computer in Dr. Wilkes’s office.
“Have you sponsored many people?” Cardozo said.
“In all, I’d say ten. I’m not trying to set a record. I sponsor as many as I’m comfortable with, two or three at a time. At the moment I sponsor only two.”
“We have a friend in common.”
“Who’s that?”
“Leigh Baker.”
Luddie Ostergate blinked as if for an instant something had almost thrown him off balance. “Sorry, I live in so many different worlds, I sometimes get thrown for a loop when a name crosses over.”
“She says you help her get through what she’s going through.”
“And she’s going through a lot. To tell the truth, I’m surprised I’m any help to anyone at the moment. Work’s keeping me busy. Too busy.”
“Could I ask what kind of work you do?”
“I run a chain of thrift shops.” There was a touch of self-disparagement in Luddie Ostergate’s shrug. “They’re staffed with men and women from AA. By the way, if the NYPD is ever looking for first-rate part-time help, you can’t do better than hire someone from AA.”
“I’ll remember that.” Cardozo set down his cup. He rose and strolled to the bookcase, making no secret of his curiosity. On the top two shelves Ostergate had arranged history books and biographies alphabetically by author. A third shelf held foreign-language manuals and a fourth, books on economics and foreign policy.
Cardozo examined the computer. It was an NEC Powermate 2—exactly the same as Wilkes’s. “You use this in your work?”
“I’d be dead without it.”
Cardozo leaned down to read the print on the screen: Condor 90397 ROM BIOS PLUS Version 5. 10 Copyright © 1989-1991. “What’s ‘Condor’?”
“My computer program gives you the option to name it.” Luddie Ostergate rose from his chair and came across the room. “I named it Condor.” He pushed a control button on the keyboard. His knuckles were reddened, swollen, his nails unevenly trimmed. The screen went blank. “Ever seen one?”
“A condor? No.”
“Fantastic birds.”
“You must have spent time in South America.”
“A little.”
A coaxial line had been attached to the computer housing. Cardozo’s eye followed it to the phone jack on the baseboard. “What kind of program do you use?”
“Standard small corporate bookkeeping—tracks inventory and expenses and payroll. Do you use a computer?”
Cardozo shook his head. “Me? No way. But I have a friend who talks to Washington on one of these. From his desk in Manhattan he can read files in a subbasement in Virginia.”
“These machines are the greatest communicators on earth today.”
“Where’s your mainframe?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“That phone line—isn’t it your link to the mainframe?”
Luddie Ostergate’s face seemed to hesitate before breaking into a grin. “No, that’s the stores’ link to me. I’m the mainframe.” He placed a hand on the computer casing. “This little eighty-meg baby is the brains of the whole operation.”
DICK BRAIDY TURNED A PAGE.
He had wrapped himself in a rumpled bathrobe and a day’s worth of whiskers stubbled his cheeks gray. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin beneath them looked puffy and tender.
He sat there in the armchair, staring at the diary. He hardly breathed, hardly moved. Finally he floated a glance toward Leigh.
“Everyone else says I’m exaggerating,” she said. “Am I?”
“No.” The word was hardly more than a breath.
“So it’s more than a five-word coincidence?”
“Much more.” He handed back the diary. “You didn’t turn the page. Nine words are the same. In his note Society Sam said ‘Sex to end all sex, is there anything else in your perverted worldview?’”
She turned the page. She saw that he was right. The line began sex to end all sex at the bottom of the right-hand page, and it continued on the next page: is there anything else?
“I wish I�
�d seen that.” She slapped the covers shut. “The police would have had to believe me. Well, they’ll believe me now.”
“Don’t tell them yet.” Dick looked up at her almost beseechingly, the way a little boy might. “If you let me keep the diary, I can prove that Nita didn’t write any of it.”
“How can you prove that?”
“Trust me?”
She laid the diary down on the coffee table. She laid it down gently, because the table was a three-thousand-dollar antique, King George papier-mâché. It had been featured in the “Living” section of the Times, and she knew her ex-husband was very proud of it. “Keep it for as long as you need.”
“Only a day or two.”
Dick Braidy’s apartment was quiet. Rain nattered softly against the window panes. Beyond the glass the evening sky was a dull, sharkskin gray.
“I guess you could use a drink,” Dick said. “Meaning, I could.”
He walked into the kitchen and came back with two tumblers of ice cubes and a can of diet Pepsi. He prised off the flip top and half filled a tumbler and handed it to her.
He went to the secretary and poured himself a straight Chivas. “Have you heard that Jim Delancey has a girlfriend now?”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“Apparently she’s an Egyptian.”
“Do you know her?”
Dick came back to his armchair. “Never met her. Some people were talking about her at Betty Bacall’s the other night.”
They sat gazing at each other. Something like death seemed to look at Leigh through Dick Braidy’s eyes.
He leaned toward the sofa and touched her arm. “Mustn’t worry about it though. I’m going to take care of everything.”
WALDO WAS ALREADY HOME when Leigh returned. “And how was the City of Light?” he asked.
“I didn’t go to Paris.”
Waldo’s highball stopped halfway to his mouth. “Did something go wrong?”
“Yes, something went wrong. You hired that guard again. Arnold Bone.”
“Darling—I’m sorry.” Waldo set down his drink and came across the room and put his hands on her shoulders. “The security people misunderstood me. I told them not to give you Arnie.”
“It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. I stayed home by myself and got a rest.”
FIFTY
Monday, June 10
ZACK SAT DOWN AT his office desk, opened the Trib and read as far as the third item in “Dick Sez.”
A certain real-estate-and-media mogul is taking very long lunch hours looking at posh pied-à-terres or, pardonnez my French, do I mean pieds-à-terre? Accompanying him on these urban field trips is a certain designing lady who, according to those who’ve been there, has a lot more to offer the eye and the bankbook than his current live-in.
The blood raced along Zack’s face and scalp. The fingers of his right hand clumped into a fist, and his left hand grabbed the phone. He told his secretary to ring Dick Braidy.
“What the hell are you trying to do to me? I gave you Dizey’s column as a favor! I thought you were a friend, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m a journalist, Zack, and if you don’t like the way I run the column, just say the word and the Post will be glad to buy out my contract.”
“Who gave you that item?”
“You’re not hearing me, Zack. I’m a journalist—not a stool pigeon.”
There was a click and then the desolate hum of a dial tone. Zack told his secretary to ring Annie MacAdam’s unlisted number.
“You vicious bitch. You gave that item to Dick Braidy.”
“I did not,” Annie MacAdam said.
“You’re the only one who knows.”
“You own the goddamn paper, can’t you control your own columnists? Can’t you read what you print before you print it? Or at least remember to tip the doorman?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How long have you lived in this town, Zack? You met with a woman three times in an apartment that wasn’t yours. The doorman saw it, you never once gave him a tip.”
“Oh, Christ.” A button on Zack’s phone was flashing. “Excuse me, Annie, there’s another call I have to take.”
The other call was Gloria Spahn. “This has gone too far.” There was no anger in her voice, just a cool matter-of-factness. “I can’t afford this kind of publicity.”
“It won’t happen again. Just meet me and I’ll explain.”
“Zack, you’re fun to play with and we’re great together, but I can’t afford to be perceived as anybody’s main squeeze. I’m a married woman and my company stock is publicly traded.”
“That blind item was a one-in-a-million fluke and I promise, never again. Just let me see you.”
“This is a rotten week for me. I don’t have any free time.”
“You must have free time sometime.”
“All I have is maybe from five to six P.M. Thursday.”
“Save that hour. Please, Gloria.”
“Maybe. We’ll talk. Good-bye, Zack.”
GLORIA BROKE THE CONNECTION. Lines one and three on her phone were blinking. She was about to push three when she realized her husband was staring at her.
“Are you crazy?” Three buttons on Stanley’s phone were blinking at once and he was ignoring them all.
“No,” Gloria said. “I’m not crazy.”
Something was clearly bothering Stanley. And he clearly wanted to bother her with it. His eyebrows had crawled so high up his forehead that they were almost touching the hem of his toupee. “You can’t see him at five P.M. on Thursday. We’re taking the helicopter up to Groton.”
“Relax. I’m just getting him off my back.” Both one and three had stopped blinking. The service must have picked up. Gloria lifted the silver coffeepot and poured herself a fresh half cup. “He’s in love with me.”
“Whether he’s in love with you or not, you shouldn’t have to be evasive with him.” Stanley had finished skimming his financial updates. He slapped the reports down on his place mat. “You should tell him straight out, my sons are graduating and the rector’s giving us dinner.”
Stanley’s twin sons by his first marriage were graduating from prep school Friday. Stanley had given Groton a new gym, and the rector had invited him and Gloria to dinner Thursday. To Stanley, the dinner signified a new level of social acceptance. He had gone so far as to tell Gloria she had to wear a high-neck dress.
“Zack Morrow isn’t interested in your sons,” Gloria said. And neither was she. She hated the idea of breaking off work to go to Groton. She hated the idea that Stanley had been previously married, that he had two kids.
Stanley poured skim milk on his high-fibre oat-’n’-almond breakfast flakes. He had dressed for breakfast in a burgundy silk bathrobe with a matching velvet collar and a pink silk show hankie in the pocket. “Have you decided yet what you’re going to wear?”
Gloria sat a moment, feeling guilty that he was counting on her. She had no intention of going to Groton with him, but two days ahead of time was a little early to start the argument. “I’m going to wear a high, white lace collar. The rector won’t even know I have tits.”
“And?” Stanley leaned forward as if to pull words out of her. “And?”
“And what?”
“What are you wearing for the ceremony? The graduation’s outdoors, it’s okay to show a little skin.”
Gloria shrugged. “I’m going to wear a WASPy little country-club number. Pale blue linen.”
“How are you going to accessorize?”
Stanley always needed to hear the details. Every time she went to bed with another man, he wanted to know how big the dick was. The only rule Stanley had about Gloria’s other men was, they had to be at least six feet tall.
“I’ll wear last year’s Bulgari pearls.”
“Only one strand.”
“Of course only one strand.”
“And not the earrings.”
Gloria had a sudden sense of the
pettiness of the male power drive. “Of course not the earrings. Believe me, they won’t know me from a Social Register volunteer ticket taker at a Junior League buffet.”
Stanley pushed back his chair and stood. He strolled to the window and stood staring out at the view across Central Park. He clasped his hands behind him. He turned and gazed at the view he was proudest of, the Titian “Vespers of Cosima de’ Medici” that occupied the entire west wall of the breakfast room.
“Know something?” he said. “It’s going to be the greatest day of my life.”
“BINGO.” It was Lou Stein on the line, calling from the lab. “We found a candle in the trash basket. It was sticking to a page of the National Enquirer, which also had some five-day-old doggie-doo sticking to it.”
“Five-day-old?” Cardozo said.
“As nearly as we can approximate these things.”
Cardozo had checked with the Department of Sanitation. The trash basket on the corner of Seventy-fourth and Third was scheduled to be emptied three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday between five and six A.M. But the truck had missed Friday because of street repairs, so anything found in the trash could theoretically date back to Wednesday.
“Okay, so the dog shit was from Thursday,” Cardozo said, “but that doesn’t mean the candle can’t be from early Saturday morning. He might have just shoved it down a layer or two. How does it match up to the others?”
“Same type—Saffire Shabbes. And it’s from the same six-pack.”
“Any idea how long it burned?”
“Allowing the usual margin for error—at least twenty-five seconds.”
Cardozo shook his head. “Where the hell does this guy get the time?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just thinking out loud. Any newspaper clippings?”
“You’re right on the money today, Vince. Benedict Braidy’s May thirty-first column was sticking to the candle that was sticking to the Enquirer.”
“Torn or clipped?”
“Clipped. Probably with the same scissors that clipped Dizey’s columns.”
“Do the serrations match any on the letters in the notes?”
“If they do, my microscope can’t see it. I’m not ruling it out, but I just can’t rule it in.”
Deadly Rich Page 41