“Like a demolition worker,” suggested Lowry as he doodled an exploding cribbage board on his note pad.
“Or an ex-frogman,” said the expert, who’d helped mine Haiphong Harbor.
“Or one of those Mideast crazies,” someone contributed.
“Or maybe,” suggested someone else, “a disgruntled bank teller with a grudge against Maritime National.”
“I’ll run my data through the FBI’s computers,” said the explosives expert. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“In the meantime,” Captain McKinnon told his troops, “we do it the old-fashioned way, people—shoe leather and interviews. Peters, what’ve you got on Wolferman?”
“Wolferman, Zachary Augustus, of Central Park South,” said Detective Peters, reading from his notes. “Caucasian male; age sixty-one, unmarried. Chairman of the board and principal stockholder in Maritime National Bank. According to his lawyer, after all the debts and some hefty bequests to distant relatives, servants, and various charities, the residual beneficiary is a cousin, Haines Froelick. The lucky Mr. Froelick will probably wind up with around six million.”
With two pre-school daughters and a third child on the way, Bernie Peters was lucky if he had six dollars left over between paychecks and his wistful sigh echoed around the room. Almost palpable in the air were visions of Caribbean resorts, sleek cars, and expensive baubles.
“The cousin was at the Maintenon last night, too, wasn’t he?” asked McKinnon.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Wolferman’s housekeeper said they spent a lot of time together. Met for dinner and played cribbage two or three nights a week. They were in last year’s tournament out on Long Island and the year before that at one down in Raleigh. Housekeeper says they bickered a lot but that they were as close as brothers. Mr. Froelick’s parents died when he was a kid and his aunt, Wolferman’s mother, sort of adopted him.”
“What’s Froelick’s financial standing?”
“I haven’t gotten that far on him yet, but he has rooms at the Quill and Shutter Club about two blocks from Wolferman. I figure he’s not living on food stamps.”
“Quill and Shutter? Is he a writer?”
“Amateur photographer. Putters around in the club’s darkroom and gets some of his pictures in group exhibitions once in a while.”
Mr. Wolferman’s housekeeper had proudly shown Peters a collage of hand-colored Polaroid prints of herself in her best black silk with her grandmother’s cameo at her neck, a collage that had won Mr. Froelick first prize for best nonprofessional work in the club’s annual exhibition four years ago.
The housekeeper was younger than her late employer and his cousin, yet she seemed to look upon them both with a sort of maternal indulgence. “Not a bit of harm in either of them,” she had told the detective, wiping away genuine tears. “Who could have done such a wicked thing?”
“The housekeeper can’t name a single person that didn’t like him. Chauffeur says the same. Ditto the lawyer.”
“Everybody has enemies,” rasped McKinnon.
“Maybe the cousin was in a hurry to inherit,” said Jim Lowry.
“And what does an elderly Park Avenue club man know about building bombs?” Albee objected.
“The battery for that bomb could have come from one of those instant cameras,” the explosives expert reminded them.
They grudgingly agreed that Haines Froelick should receive further attention.
“What about Sutton?” Captain McKinnon asked Elaine Albee.
“Not too much yet,” she answered, absently pushing a pencil through her blonde curls. “His wife’s really torn up about it. She’s on a heavy guilt trip because apparently she’s the one who signed them up for the tournament. He taught modern history over at Vanderlyn College; she’s a curator at the Feldheimer Museum up near Lincoln Center. Two kids.”
“Money?”
“Just their salaries, as far as I can tell. They were out at McClellan State before coming here and I got a printout of their rap sheets.
“The protest movement,” explained Albee, seeing their surprised expressions. She shuffled through the papers before her and read off some of the main dates and places: the sit-ins, unlawful assemblies, and marching without permits; more than a dozen incidences of civil disobedience on John Sutton’s part, fewer by Val Sutton. Mrs. Sutton had been fined twice and acquitted of any serious charges. John Sutton had spent fifteen days in a Chicago jail for assaulting a police officer during the 1968 Democratic Convention. Their records were not unusual for committed campus activists of that period in American history, she summed up. “Both were questioned after something called the Red Snow bombing, but no charges were filed.”
The bomb expert’s head came up. “Red Snow? Were they involved with those bastards?”
“What’s Red Snow?” Albee asked, who was in grammar school in the late Sixties.
“One of those violent underground groups that splintered off SDS around sixty-nine or seventy,” he replied sourly. “Sometime in early 1970—”
“January ninth,” Elaine Albee interposed from her printouts.
“January ninth,” he nodded, “a group of radicals bombed a draft board in Chicago. What they hadn’t bothered to check was that the draft board only took up part of the building. The other part opened onto a side street with just a flimsy wall between. Draft board on one side, day-care center on the other. Four little kids were killed outright, along with one of the teachers and a couple from the draft board. It had snowed that morning and kids were blown out into the street, mangled and bloody in the fresh white snow.
“That’s what I mean about amateurs,” he said grimly. “They always use too damn much. Anyhow, that’s supposed to be where they got the name. Red Snow. The papers had another version, though. Said the leader, Fred Hamilton, was a Ho Chi Minh sympathizer hooked on cocaine at the time.”
“Yeah, I remember now,” said one of the older detectives. “Weren’t they the ones that blew themselves up in a fancy fishing lodge up around the Finger Lakes?”
“Yeah, that was Red Snow,” McKinnon rumbled reminiscently. “Funny how you forget about things like that. It was a seven-day wonder with the papers. Beautiful young debutante.”
His younger officers were looking blank again, so he refreshed their memories.
“One of the Red Snow members was the only daughter of a wealthy stockbroker who owned a twelve-room vacation cottage on Cayuga Lake.
“He knew she’d been a member of a radical SDS chapter at college that winter, but he thought she’d broken with them and joined some sort of back-to-nature outfit. At least that’s what he told the FBI and the state troopers later. I guess granola and free love sounded so much better to him than riots and sit-ins that he let them use the place that summer while he and his third wife went off to Europe for a couple of months.”
“She’d left SDS all right,” said the bomb expert, picking up the story, “but Red Snow was no love-happy commune. They’d begun to stockpile weapons and explosives and they must have had several hundred pounds of the stuff because somebody got careless one August night and the place went up like Nagasaki. They say you could see the flames as far away as Syracuse, a hundred miles away.
“When the ashes cooled, seven bodies were found, but they were so badly burned that four of them were never positively identified. The house was built out over the lake and a couple of canoers swore they saw three people dive off an upper balcony with their clothes afire. The debutante’s burned body was floating in the lake the next day, but they never found the other two.”
“Red Snow had a meltdown,” someone quipped. McKinnon scowled. “And the Suttons were mixed up with them?”
“They were questioned,” said Albee. “In January and again in August of that year.”
“Probably because Sutton was active in SDS at McClellan State,” said Sigrid, entering the discussion for the first time.
The others looked at her curiously. “You knew Sutton?” asked the captain.
“A friend of mine over at Vanderlyn first met them when John Sutton was head of McClellan’s SDS. As I recall, Fred Hamilton was from McClellan, too. That’s probably why the Suttons were questioned.”
“So Sutton’s wife might know how to make a bomb,” said Peters.
Albee shook her small blonde head in vigorous denial. “No way. That was no act that lady put on last night. Besides, Sutton’s not the one with the six-million estate.”
“Keep an open mind,” growled the captain. “He could have been carrying insurance. Check it. And check what the marriage was really like before you say ‘no way’ again. We’re looking for somebody with bomb-making experience and for my money, an SDS background puts Mrs. Sutton on the charts. You’ve already said the tournament was her idea.”
“My friend says he and Sutton were at the Maintenon on Wednesday,” Sigrid said quietly. “They were actually in the same ballroom.”
A babble of questions erupted just as a uniformed sergeant put his head in the door. “Captain? There’s some guy here from the Navy to see you about the Maintenon bombing.”
The captain heaved himself to his feet. “Take over, Lieutenant Harald,” he said and went out to see what the Navy wanted.
CHAPTER 8
For the next quarter hour, Sigrid passed along to her colleagues the background information Nauman had given her about Sutton’s McClellan days, his current standing at Vanderlyn and his brief visit to the Maintenon Hotel on Wednesday. In return, she heard from them the mostly nonconclusive findings the various forensics teams had delivered earlier that morning.
The sling on her arm elicited questions, and she briefly described her confrontation with the assailant she’d shot the night before. It was the first time any of them had ever seen the austere lieutenant without her hair severely bound. The blue scarf did not restrain her hair as tightly as bobby pins and already a few stray tendrils had feathered around the strong lines of her face.
Some of the older men still had residual misgivings and resentments about a female lieutenant working homicides; but Tillie was universally liked and, as his partner, Sigrid was the automatic recipient of spontaneous condolence. Their warmth and sincerity made Sigrid momentarily tongue-tied, but for once—perhaps influenced by the sling and the blue scarf—they seemed to attribute her stammering acknowledgments to depth of feeling and not to the coldhearted detachment most tagged her with.
Tillie was one of their own, and since Sigrid was the most directly affected by his injury, it was taken for granted that she’d be running this case.
Whom she’d be partnered with until Tillie’s recovery was another matter.
Depending upon whom you asked, Tillie was either a saint or a simpleton and not just because he worked with Lieutenant Harald without complaint, but because he also insisted that the lieutenant had a sense of humor and a human side somewhere under all that ice and efficiency. But Tillie could say what he liked: it had not gone unnoticed that Lieutenant Harald’s frozen reserve seemed to make even Captain McKinnon uncomfortable at times.
Before anyone was forced to throw himself on the barbed wire, the captain returned with a young naval officer in a dark blue uniform, his black-billed white cap tucked under his arm.
He was not tall, an inch or so short of six feet in fact, but he was well-built: wide shoulders, slim hips, and an easy way of carrying himself that blended military discipline with athletic vitality. In his late twenties, the young officer had deep-set brown eyes, a lopsided smile, well-defined jaw and straw-colored hair a few shades darker than the bright gold stripes on his uniform.
An electric awareness immediately flickered through the other four women seated at the table.
“This is Lieutenant Alan Knight of Naval Intelligence,” said McKinnon. “He’ll be sitting in on our investigation because of Commander Dixon.”
An attractive young man, Sigrid noted clinically, and was amused to see a slight scowl appear on Jim Lowry’s face as he became aware of Elaine Albee’s cuter than usual friendliness when the captain introduced her to the newcomer. In addition to Albee’s flashing dimples, Sigrid noticed that Detective Urbanska was smoothing her curls and that the two women from the bomb squad sat just a shade more provocatively in their chairs.
Her inner amusement deepened as Lieutenant Knight shifted his hat to his left hand and a broad gold wedding band gleamed on that all-important third finger. A nearly inaudible female sigh swept the room and suddenly everyone settled back to normal. As hormonal tensions eased, they were replaced by the ordinary wariness that arises whenever a different authority meddles in what is perceived to be NYPD affairs. It was bad enough that the explosion had the FBI waiting in the wings. Who needed the Navy as well?
Lieutenant Knight seemed to sense their wariness and tried to assure them that the Navy did not mean to interfere with civilian matters.
“Frankly, Commander Dixon doesn’t appear to be the bomber’s target,” he told them, with a slight drawl. “All the same, she does carry a high security clearance. It’s probably sheer coincidence and plain bad luck for the commander that the bomb went off so close to her, still—”
He shrugged and flashed that boyish, lopsided smile again; “The Navy sure would appreciate it if you’d let me tag along.”
“Shucks, gee willikers, yes indeedy,” Jim Lowry mimicked softly, under cover of the captain’s rumbled acquiescence.
Elaine Albee kicked him.
“What’s the commander’s condition this morning?” she asked.
“Not good. She’s still in critical condition. Her left side caught the main force of the blast. If she lives—” Knight shook his head pessimistically. “I never met her, but they say she was real attractive.”
Elaine Albee, who knew she was pretty and enjoyed that knowledge, suppressed a superstitious shudder, imagining what a bomb could do to smooth skin and fragile bones.
“Lieutenant Harald will coordinate our investigation,” McKinnon said, making it official. “We’re shorthanded right now, Knight, so as long as the Navy wants you to look over our shoulder, why don’t you work with her?”
“Fine with me,” nodded Lieutenant Knight, grinning at Sigrid.
Briskly, Sigrid ran down the list of priorities, noting which ought to be followed up on immediately and which could wait. “We need a list of everyone connected with the tournament,” she told Albee. “Get enough copies so that Mrs. Sutton, Marian Tildon, and—does Commander Dixon have any immediate family here?” She turned to Knight.
He shook his head. “According to her file, her next-of-kin’s a cousin in Miami.”
“It’s unlikely he can help—”
“She,” Lieutenant Knight corrected. “The cousin’s a woman, as I recall.”
“In any event, we might as well mail her a copy, too. See if she recognizes any of the names.”
Peters and his partner, Matt Eberstadt, were told to continue looking into Zachary Wolferman’s life with an emphasis on his cousin, Haines Froelick. Albee and Lowry were to return to the Maintenon and continue questioning the staff and anyone connected with the cribbage tournament who might still be there.
“Don’t forget your report on last night,” McKinnon reminded her as the meeting broke up. “They got a fistful of positive IDs on your assailant.”
Sending the others on ahead, Sigrid returned to her own office to fill out the report required every time an officer discharged a weapon. She was struggling to insert the form into her typewriter with one hand when Lieutenant Knight appeared in her doorway.
“Can I help you with that?”
“I thought you went with Albee and Lowry,” Sigrid said inanely.
“Didn’t Captain McKinnon mean for me to stick with you?” He watched her clumsiness with the return mechanism. “I’m a right good typist. Why don’t you let me do that?”
Without waiting for permission, he swung the typewriter around to his side of the desk, seated himself in the nearest chair and rollered the forms i
nto the machine with a businesslike air.
Bemused, Sigrid leaned back in her own chair and gave him her name, rank, and all the other required data. Observing the tilt of his fair head, she realized again how handsome the Navy officer was and, almost against her will, found herself comparing him with Oscar Nauman.
Half as old and probably half as bright, she thought loyally, subconsciously defending Nauman against nebulous threats, completely unaware that loyalty was in question.
In a clear crisp voice, she dictated her account of the previous night’s shooting, signed the forms in triplicate, and dropped them in her Out basket. At least Knight hadn’t asked a lot of dumb questions about the shooting incident. Did that indicate tact or apathy?
“I’ll have a car sent around,” she told him crisply. “You do drive, don’t you?”
“Sure, but that won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ve got a driver waiting.”
The baby-faced young sailor who hopped out from behind the wheel of the black Chrysler and held the rear door for them looked barely old enough to steer a homemade go-cart, much less hold a legal driver’s license. He saluted smartly and sir’d and ma’am’d them when told where to go, but it was immediately apparent by the way he inched out into it that New York’s free-wheeling traffic intimidated him dreadfully. He tried to hug the curb, ran afoul of a compulsory right-turn lane before he’d gone two blocks, and was freshly surprised each time his lane was blocked by double-parkers. Instead of swerving to the left as everyone else did, he would put on his blinker and wait hopefully for someone courteous enough to let him in. Since double-parkers were as plentiful as courteous drivers were rare, it began to look like a long trip up to the Maintenon.
The Right Jack (Sigrid Harald) Page 7