The Crasher

  “It’s a classic dilemma; everything has pointed to Stern, except for a few minor details. Now this Brady material is going to ruin everything…”

  Nobody needed to ask what he meant; in criminal legal circles “Brady material” was part of the language, referring to a textbook case, where a defendant named Brady had been convicted after the prosecution had withheld evidence which might have exonerated him.

  Mossop groaned. “I can hear the boss now… Stern hasn’t been indicted; the case is just sitting there… best finish it now… we can’t be accused of withholding exculpatory evidence. Fuck it. Where does it leave us? With a finger up our ass. I can’t bear to think of that fucking self-satisfied look on Caulter’s face as we hand everything to him on a plate.” He sighed. “Well, I’d better get it over with.” He picked up the phone. “I need to see the big man right away. I know he’s in town. Tell the D.A. it’s an emergency.”

  The phone was ringing when Ginny let herself into the loft in the late afternoon, Johnny having dropped her off on his way to the office to finish his column.

  It was her mother, breathless, nervous, one word falling over another as if she hadn’t the time even to construct a sentence. “Your Aunt Lil… died this morning. Dad’s flying out for the funeral… can’t stop… tried to find Alex… a Nurse Dob… can’t remember her name looking to inform him… left a message… got to drive Dad to the airport in an hour… he doesn’t know what to pack…”

  All the traumatic events of the day paled into insignificance. Ginny felt physically ill, unable to communicate to her mother her shock, her sudden sense of gaping emptiness, thinking of Alex’s bereavement. It didn’t matter. Her mother hung up before she’d even finished a halting few words.

  In a stupor, Ginny still hadn’t replaced the receiver when she felt a light touch on her shoulder, a hand over her mouth quickly stopping her scream. Alex’s hand.

  He knew. She could see the pain on his face, a much loved face, but older, strained.

  “That was Mother, Alex. I just heard,” she said tearfully. Tm… I’m so sorry…”

  “I came to say goodbye, Ginny. A friend… thank God, a friend with a plane is giving me a lift to the Coast In case something happens to me I wanted to-”

  “Oh, Alex.” She flung her arms around him, the cousin who’d taught her everything, who’d tried to turn her into a million-dollar baby like Claudia Schiffer, who’d never given her anything but support. “Oh, Alex,” she cried again. “Don’t… don’t say goodbye, I can’t stand it.”

  He was kissing her forehead in the old-fashioned, avuncular way he’d used so often throughout the years to show his approval. He held her out at arm’s length, a vestige of his old spirit flaring as he tried to say, “Don’t stop pushing the envelope, Ginny. You’re going to get there, I know it.”

  He glanced out of the window, then at his watch, gold and gleaming on his wrist. “I took a risk coming here today. Now I’ve got to get going. Don’t believe everything you might hear about me, Gin. One day when all this is behind me, you’ll understand.”

  She fiercely held on to his hands. “Look me in the eyes, Alex.” She began to sob noisily. ‘Tell me you didn’t push Svank to his death. Tell me you had nothing to do with the murder.”

  Alex brought his face close to hers, looking deeply into her eyes. “I wish, my Gin, I wish, but no, I didn’t do it, that is the truth and nothing but the truth…”

  So why was he in hiding? Who was he hiding from? Why couldn’t he move around openly, normally? Why couldn’t he buy a ticket like everybody else to fly to California? Why did he have to have a “lift” in a private plane?

  “Who’s hunting you down, Alex? Why haven’t you been in touch before? What about the jewels?”

  “That’s another story, Ginny, my darling.”

  “Please explain, Alex. Don’t go, let’s talk.”

  Her entreaties were in vain. He was at the door, blowing her a kiss. “I’ve got to go, Gin. I’m on the run, but not for much longer. I won’t say goodbye, sweet Ginny, just au revoir. Don’t forget, don’t let in any strangers.”

  She heard him rush down the stairs. She heard the front door bang. She hadn’t even told him that only that morning she’d given the police evidence that would lead to Stern’s release.

  It took a few days of feverish, back-to-back meetings before Caulter was finally, reluctantly called by Mossop and told that based on fresh “Brady material” evidence, the D.A. had instructed him to dismiss all charges against Arthur Stern.

  “D.A. Eats Crow” was one headline in the Post, which summed up the atmosphere at the press conference called to announce the dismissal of all charges against Stern.

  Caulter, Stern’s defense attorney, was quoted saying, “The people of New York are happy that justice has been done.” He was shown shaking hands with a distinctly unsmiling D.A.

  The papers lapped up the behind-the-scenes stories, fastening onto the theme of an overly hasty NYPD, a too-fast arraignment of the wrong man, who also happened to be such a pillar of society. Would Mossop’s head fall? Who would take the rap? Few paid much attention to the fact that Caulter used Svank’s real name, Vladimir Owzvankigori, for the first time in one of the many interviews he granted.

  For the moment the press wanted more about the living than the dead. What new evidence, for instance, had brought about such an embarrassing public reversion from the D.A/s office?

  It didn’t take long to find out. Twenty-four hours after the “Eat Crow” headline hit the streets, variations of “The Crasher” detailing Ginny’s story were all over the front pages of the tabloids and on the local news.

  A couple of Oz’s pictures made it into print, although the picture editors were amazed, and delighted, to discover how many pictures they already had of “the mystery crasher” in their files, pictures which showed her in a variety of wild to weird to wonderful designs at all sorts of notable events.

  The Wall Street Journal devoted its much-read front page center column to famous “crashing” exploits, including some acts of daring during World War II; The Op Ed page of the New York Times ran a piece from a prominent psychiatrist explaining and evaluating the psyche of a “crashing” personality.

  Ginny was distraught. She felt exposed and alone in the world, although many people phoned to try to comfort her, including, to her added embarrassment, Everard Gosman. Even “Chili,” the Indian psychiatrist, offered his services free “during this traumatic time.”

  It was traumatic all right, particularly when, in response to her anxious questions, her mother told her Alex had not appeared at his mother’s funeral.

  “But he must have been there,” Ginny remonstrated. “He had to have been-”

  “I think you mean to say he should have been,” her mother snapped, “but unless he came as the invisible man, I can assure you, your father did not see him.” She couldn’t continue her protestations without her mother becoming suspicious.

  She began to receive a series of hang-up calls; then Petersh reappeared to question her again, warning her not to leave town. He reminded her that despite her protestations she couldn’t identify anyone, that she was now, along with Stern, a material witness in the case. The nightmare hadn’t gone away, it had intensified.

  What once upon a time she’d lived for-her name in the papers, big and bold, along with a variety of pictures showing her wearing her own designs-she now had in spades. It meant nothing. She dreaded seeing the papers, feared to go out in case the paparazzi were around, waiting to pounce on “The Crasher” or “Stern’s Alibi Girl,” as Esme told her she was billed in the National Enquirer.

  She wrote a four-page letter to her parents, explaining as best she could what had really happened, and Esme sent it by Federal Express.

  She felt better-for five minutes-when her mother called and told her they believed in her, and “Why don’t you come home for a few days?”

  Home? Where was home? Certainly not Florida, with the Walke
r School of Advanced Learning. All the same, hearing the love and concern in her mother’s voice was soothing to the soul.

  Johnny tried to tease her out of her depression. “It’s your Andy Warhol fifteen minutes of fame. Come on, Ginny, snap out of it. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? Walk out the front door with your head held high. Summertime or not, sweat it out with that cloak on your back-”

  “The police won’t give it back to me.”

  A month after Svank’s death, and three weeks after the charges were dismissed against Stern, Petersh returned to the loft with a new line of inquiry, the one Ginny had been dreading all along.

  “Are you acquainted with an Alexander Rossiter?”

  “Yes, he’s my cousin.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No…” Her mouth was dry with fear.

  “Have you heard from him? Has he called you recently?”

  She didn’t like Petersh. It was easy to lie, to say firmly, coldly, “No, not a word.”

  “Do you know your cousin uses a number of aliases? Alex Heibron?”

  Another one. She felt herself flush with shock. Another name she’d never heard of.

  “No, I didn’t know that. Why would he do that?”

  “What about Angus O’Keeffe? Have you heard that one?”

  “I’ve told you I didn’t know. I don’t know why he would use another name. Why are you telling me all this? I can’t help you.”

  Petersh came up close, glowering. “I think you’re hiding something, Miss Walker. Your cousin is in big trouble. Interpol, the FBI, and now I’m looking for him. If you know where he is and aren’t telling me, just as you neglected to pass on the information about Mr. Stern, this time you won’t walk away from Centre Street so easily.”

  So he’d seen how frightened she was at the D.A.’s office; he knew how to get her attention now.

  She was jumpy and irritable when Johnny arrived an hour later. She’d promised him she’d dress up and risk running into any reporters or photographers still patrolling the street; but after Petersh’s visit, she couldn’t face it

  “I’m sony, Johnny, I just don’t feel like going out.” She had a bump on her chin, her hair was a mess, and she’d been wearing the same T-shirt and jeans for two days.

  Johnny had had enough. “You’ve got to pull yourself together, Ginny. D’you seriously believe there’s no life after crashing? What about all that big talk of yours, about being a successful designer? You’ll never get anywhere lolling around here.” He stared at her steadily. “There’s something else on your mind, isn’t there? I’ve been doing some thinking. I don’t hear a certain name much anymore, for which I must say I’m thankful. I’ve added up two and two and think it comes to four.”

  Her heart started to thump. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. What ever happened to Little Lord Fauntleroy? I never hear you talk about him anymore, I mean your sainted cousin, of course, Alex Rossiter, the man who taught you everything. Can it be this paragon of virtue has dropped you now you’ve been in this trouble? Where has he been when you needed him most? Has he called? Is that why you’ve turned into such a limp dishrag?”

  She began to steam. He was glad to see it. He went on, “Cousin Alex doesn’t come around much anymore, does he, Ginny? I’m sorry to tell you, but I don’t think Alex is the sunny little choirboy you’ve always thought… there’s something going on, isn’t there, Ginny?”

  She shut her eyes. First Petersh, now Johnny. She couldn’t pretend anymore. She had to confide in someone, and who else but Johnny?

  “Well?” Johnny pulled her onto his lap. All the fire went out of her. She didn’t resist. “Tell me, baby, tell me what’s eating you up? What are you hiding from me?”

  And she told him. It just poured out-about her fears when Alex became involved with Svank; about his erratic behavior; his “entailed” gifts, his long absences, his silences; and finally, in a tearful burst, about the hideous discovery of the Villeneva jewels hidden at the bottom of her toilet tank, and their disappearance the night of Svank’s death.

  Johnny sat in silence, his mind racing, trying to grasp what he’d just been told, never dreaming he’d hear anything like this. He knew from the Art Loss Register and from Trager how hot the Villeneva jewels were. The police suspected that although they were eventually destined for a major drug dealer, they could possibly still be in the U.S., hidden until everything cooled down.

  Frankly, he hadn’t cared that much. After the shock of learning about Ginny’s involvement, persuading her to talk to the police, and Stern’s subsequent exoneration, he’d thought he’d put the Svank case behind him.

  Now he shook his head in disbelief. It was inconceivable that all this time the precious gems had actually been planted in this down-at-the-heel loft, in a toilet tank of all places. From everything he’d learned about this thief, he knew he was a particularly cool customer, but this was cool enough to freeze the mind.

  If Ginny’s fabled cousin, Alex Rossiter, really turned out to be the main hand in the Villeneva affair, it wasn’t too farfetched to believe he was responsible for other equally “cool” acts of daring thievery, major thefts which led right back to Svank.

  It was ironic. Just when he’d least expected it, just when he was trying to cheer Ginny up, she’d put straight into his hands the identity of the missing person in the Svank puzzle, the “new” man on Svank’s team, the one who the FBI knew had dared to disobey the boss and been sent for some tough “orientation” to the back streets of San Juan.

  Again Johnny asked himself, was it really possible that Ginny’s cousin could be the man the FBI had been after, the small fish in a vast, money-laundering sea of crime, plucked out for bigger things by the biggest fish of all, only to disgrace himself with Svank, the boss, soon after?

  Johnny hadn’t said a word and Ginny, white, wan, was looking at him in fear. He tightened his arm around her. “Ginny, I can’t believe what you’ve been going through… and you never told me.” Again he shook his head in disbelief. “Am I such an ogre? Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was afraid… I wanted to find out what was going on first” She turned to him, saying earnestly, “I still find it impossible to accept that Alex is a thief. If you knew him as I do, you’d understand. He’s been such an inspiration to me my whole life. If I told you, you’d have had to go to the police. I couldn’t let that happen until I heard what Alex had to say-”

  “Well, what did he have to say?”

  Ginny blinked back tears. “That’s the problem. I haven’t had enough time to talk to him… and Petersh was here this afternoon, asking me questions about Alex. He knows, somehow, that Alex and I are cousins-probably through Oz…” Some of her steam came back when she said Oz’s name. “Damn him to his metaphysical hell forever…”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing, forget it.” She jumped up, agitated. “I’m sure Petersh knows what Alex has been up to… says he’s wanted by Interpol, the FBI. I’m sure Svank is behind all this, that Alex thought he could play in his league and then got out of his depth. Alex isn’t a crook. If I could only spend time with him and ask him about everything, I’m sure it could all be explained.” She looked at Johnny beseechingly. “Could you help me find him?” She paused, not sure whether to go on, then, “Remember after Esme’s wedding, the night when I said I didn’t want to go home ever again? I meant it. The jewels were still here in the loft, like something evil… when I said I wanted to meet your father, you were so mad, but it was because I thought if he knew the story, he’d know what to do, he’d find Alex and find out the truth. I know it sounds crazy…”

  He should have been furious, humiliated, but he wasn’t. Instead he realized how strong Ginny must be; most women he knew would have broken under the strain of all she’d been through.

  “When did you last see him?”

  She hesitated. Even now, despite Alex’s “the truth and not
hing but the truth” avowal, she couldn’t tell anyone-not even Johnny-her deepest fear-that Alex was involved in Svank’s death.

  “I thought I saw him the other day when I went to look at the Barneys cloak. I was sure I saw him with Poppy-you know, Poppy Gan. I jumped out of the cab, nearly got myself killed, but with all the traffic and crowds, I lost them.” She bit her lip. “I used to think Alex had a thing for Poppy. Perhaps he does, I don’t know.”

  “Calm down, Ginny. Think. When did you actually see him, talk to him, face-to-face?”

  There was a too long silence and finally Ginny whispered, “He called right after I saw him with Poppy. That was the first time in ages. He promised he would come to see me that weekend, to explain everything, that if he didn’t call himself to tell me when he was coming, Poppy would-but he didn’t come.”

  Then-another overlong pause—“You know, his mother died, remember I told you, my Aunt Lil? She died the day I went with you to the D.A.’s office. When I got home, Alex came by on his way to the funeral. I haven’t heard from him since-or from Poppy. Her phone never answers…”

  Johnny looked grim. After the decision he’d made in Washington, he’d concentrated on writing about problems where he could make a difference. Goddammit, he didn’t want to reenter the Svank cesspool. He’d just received a ton of mail after telling a story that, for once, elevated hope and belief in society. It was based on the news he’d heard from Sister Cochrane, about the redemption of “Madame Sacks to Saks.” After his relentless pieces, she’d been taken off the streets and saved by modern medicine and her own renewed faith. He’d been able to report that “Madame Saks,” Rosemary, was even teaching again in a school run by caring nuns, one of whom, Sister Cochrane, was determined not to let her slide back into the abyss.

  All the same, he knew there was no way he would be able to convince Ginny what a lowlife criminal her cousin Alex Rossiter really was, unless he could present her with undeniable facts. That shouldn’t be difficult now, he reckoned, and it would be a pleasure to help Mr. Rossiter get what he deserved.