“Hi,” he said.
“Oh, hi!” I said. He knew I had caller ID, so he knew that I knew that it was he on the phone. The faux surprise in my voice was wasted on him. “How are you?” I found a used tissue next to the phone on my nightstand and dabbed at my eye.
“What are you up to?”
“I’m getting ready.” I bit the inside of my mouth trying to decide exactly how much to tell him. I decided to focus on about fifty percent of the truth. “I’m going to a black-tie event.”
“Yeah?” He sounded surprised.
“With Max.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” I pulled the tissue away from my eye and blinked a few times, deciding that the worst was over.
“Something for Crime TV?” he asked, coming to the logical conclusion that it had to do with the cable network that Max ran.
“Not exactly,” I said. When he didn’t respond, I came to the conclusion that he was waiting for me to elaborate. “Uh, it’s for Riviera Pointe. It’s a Richie Kraecker party.” Again, no response, which triggered my diarrhea of the mouth. “To launch the condo thing. You know, the one down by the river. Riviera Pointe . . .”
He interrupted me. “I know where it is, Alison. And you know that I know where it is.” I heard a loud exhale of breath. “Just so you know, I’ll be there, too.”
I got that watery feeling in my abdomen that precedes intestinal distress. “Yeah?” I said, sitting down on the bed and crossing my legs, which were going up and down in a nervous jig.
“Well, I’ll be outside. Fred and I have to sit on the location just to see what’s going on.” He chuckled but it wasn’t a merriment-filled sound. “You won’t see me on your way in, but I’ll see you.”
I laughed nervously. “So, after that, when will you see me again?”
“Probably on your way out of the restaurant,” he said, without a hint of irony. Crawford’s never ironic and hardly ever sarcastic.
“And after that?”
He paused a moment and I felt the blood in my veins run cold. It was time for the brush-off, I suspected. “Well, that depends on how well-behaved you are tonight,” he said, cryptically.
Not for the first time, I thought, I am so screwed. My eyes filled with tears, and this time they were real, not mascara wand induced.
I hung up and threw a lipstick into my tiny purse, giving myself a disgusted look in the mirror over the dresser. You’re sleuthing, I told myself. He’ll forgive you when you solve the case. But even I couldn’t convince myself.
Jack had sent a car service for me and a shiny black town car was idling at the curb when I went downstairs. I had to admit, it was better than riding around in Crawford’s cruiser, but I would never tell him that. I looked out the window as we sailed down the Saw Mill River Parkway and thought about what I had undertaken. So Hernan and Jose had painted my dining room. I’d paid them to. That wasn’t enough to make me get so involved, and even though I had grown somewhat closer to Amalia, in reality, I knew nothing about the family. Was my wanting to get to the bottom of this tragic death sincere in its intent? Or was I desperately trying to be in the life of the boyfriend I never saw? Was I just bored? I didn’t know. But I did know that if I was able to contribute to finding out who killed this innocent man, I would feel better.
By the time I had gotten to the restaurant, close to Riviera Pointe, I had convinced myself that I was going to butt out of the situation. I would enjoy the champagne and hors d’oeuvre at the party, bid good-bye for a final time to Jack, and be on my way. Hopefully, Jack had heeded my suggestion to meet him inside the restaurant and not outside, which would mean that Crawford wouldn’t be any the wiser as to who had sent that shiny black town car for me.
I got out of the car on a block adjacent to Broadway to go into the restaurant and looked around for Crawford’s puke-brown cruiser, but as I suspected, it was nowhere to be found. Crawford knows a thing or two about surveillance, and I had a feeling that he and Fred were lurking in the shadows somewhere, drinking lukewarm coffee and bantering back and forth about the people entering the restaurant.
Max and I had debated the merits of the party being at a restaurant in the Bronx; Max; whose marketing/publicity genius had launched her career at Crime TV, thought it was an exceptionally good idea. She explained it to me. “See, he’s trying to get in good with the people in the neighborhood. If he launches the place at a local restaurant, everybody’s happy. And it gives potential condo buyers a feel for the area.” She paused. “And it’s cheaper than having it in Manhattan.”
I chewed on that for a while. It wasn’t a very complicated or sophisticated plan for engendering good will. I guessed that she was right, but the Bronx? Since I spent almost every waking hour in this neighborhood, I was kind of disappointed that I was attending a black-tie affair not twenty blocks from St. Thomas. I stood on the sidewalk and, when I was sure that everyone had entered the restaurant, I faced Broadway, where I suspected Crawford was parked. I pulled up the hem of my dress and went into a spastic bump and grind for his benefit.
“What are you doing?”
I turned and came face-to-face with Jack, who looked resplendent in his very traditional tux and bowtie. I flushed deep red.
“Do you always dance before entering a restaurant?”
I coughed and cleared my throat. “Uh, no.” I held out my hand to assure Crawford and his long-distance camera lens of my intentions toward this gorgeous man. “Nice to see you, Jack.”
He took in my dress and shoes. “You look lovely.” He took me by the elbow and steered me toward the restaurant door. “And your boyfriend is across the street in a puke-brown cruiser. He’s sitting next to a guy who looks like a caveman.”
“That’s his partner. And my best friend’s husband,” I said and walked through the door.
I had never been to the River Garden Restaurant and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was quite elegant. Jack stopped and began talking to another tuxedo-clad man and I used that as an excuse to move around the room to try to catch a glimpse of Max. I spied her across the room, heading in from the garden at the rear of the restaurant, a backless black dress hanging off her bony shoulders. She was deep in conversation with an eight-foot-tall woman—Morag, I presumed—who was wearing what appeared to be a Kleenex and high heels.
I was totally out of my league.
Max spied me across the restaurant and shouted my name. I had the good sense not to shout back, and that is what makes us completely different. She sashayed my way with the giant woman and introduced her as Morag, Richie’s girlfriend.
Morag took my hand in what felt like a Vulcan death grip. Was that really necessary? I grimaced and managed to extricate my throbbing appendage and tell her how nice it was to meet her. She looked me up and down and then looked at Jack, who had sauntered up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. When she looked back at me, her cold, dead, blue fish eyes said, “what is she doing with him?” I held her gaze, though, and smiled. If she thought he was a winner, she should get a load of Crawford.
“So, Morag,” I started, determined to make something approaching polite conversation, “what do you do?”
She waved a skeletal arm, dripping with diamond-encrusted bangles, dismissively. “Oh, this and that.”
Max jumped in. “Morag is doing some consulting at Riviera Pointe.”
I was bored already. Is there a more boring word—or profession—than “consulting”? What does that even mean? “Really? What kind of consulting?”
“I help Richie with his accounting,” she said and took a glass of champagne off a tray held aloft by a passing waiter. “Just to make sure he’s not getting ripped off.”
Richie getting ripped off? That was a good one. What about the people who actually bought his condos? From what I gathered, they were the ones who should be concerned. I smiled again. “You must be a great help to him.”
“I am,” she said and I could almost see a film of boredom cover he
r eyes. She looked over my head and around the room to see who else she could find to talk to. “Oh, I see . . .” she started, and realizing that she couldn’t come up with somebody’s name fast enough to get away, continued, “. . . somebody I know. Enjoy the party,” she said, moving away in a cloud of expensive perfume.
Max waved her hand in front of her face and coughed loudly. “It’s like she took a bath in that crap.”
Jack turned around from the person with whom he had been conversing and greeted Max with a two-cheeked kiss. Kind of continental for a guy from Long Island City, but I held my tongue.
“I’m ravenous,” Max said and looked around for the buffet. “Coming?”
“No,” I said, taking Jack’s arm. “I want to say hello to Mr. Kraecker.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, “I’m going to look for a pig in a blanket.” She started off and then turned back around. “Who isn’t Richie Kraecker.”
It didn’t take me long to spot Richie, holding court at the end of the bar. He was exactly as he appeared in the newspapers—except way shorter. He had slicked-back hair and a jowly face that sat atop the thickest neck I had ever seen. As we got closer, he spotted Jack and called for him.
“And this is Jack McManus, director of publicity for the Rangers,” he said to the crowd gathered around him. He grabbed Jack in a bear hug and did that back-slapping embrace that jocular men are fond of. “And the first owner of a gorgeous condo at Riviera Pointe.”
“Good to see you, Richie,” Jack said, breaking away. “This is Alison Bergeron.”
I held out my hand, only to find it crushed in the firmest handshake I had ever encountered. That was two for the evening. I had sustained a knife injury to that hand earlier in the year and the scar tissue that crossed the palm was tender and slightly painful. I winced and fought the urge to cry out in agony as Richie pumped my hand up and down.
“Nice to meet you,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Alison’s interested in . . .” Jack started, turning to look at me with a bemused look in his eyes, “. . . what is it that you’re interested in, Alison?”
I pulled my hand out of Richie’s and held his gaze. “A condo. I’m interested in a condo in your beautiful building.”
Richie broke out into a wide grin. “You’ll love it. Ten stories of luxury condos, an Olympic-size pool, full state-of-the-art health club! And the most fantastic views of the Hudson anywhere on the waterfront. I’ll put you in touch with one of our sales reps.” He looked at Jack. “And if you’re a friend of the big guy here, you know you’ll get the best deal I can make,” he said, laughing.
The crowd around Richie, full-fledged sycophants one and all, laughed on cue.
“How far along are you in the process?” I asked.
“Foundation is poured, so actual construction will start any day.” He took a swig from the martini sitting on the bar next to him.
“Everything going well?” I asked, all faux sincerity. I tried to slouch a little bit so that I didn’t look like Queen of the Amazon while standing over him in my three-inch heels.
“Fantastic.” He took another long swallow from his drink.
Jack squeezed my elbow. “Why don’t we . . .”
“I heard something about . . .” I barely had it out when he interrupted me.
“Accident,” Richie said and finished his drink. He motioned to the bartender for a new one. “It was an accident. Can I get you a drink?”
“Vodka martini, three olives,” I said, still looking into his eyes. It had already been pretty well-established by the local papers that Jose had been murdered and that the NYPD had an entire team of homicide cops on the case, but apparently Richie had a story and he was sticking to it. It was an improbable story, but Richie’s version of events, nonetheless. I guess I couldn’t blame him: nothing like a murder at your job site to make the place undesirable to just about everyone.
“Grey Goose OK?” he asked, his eyes going up to my hairline.
“Perfect.” I smiled. “I heard something about . . .”
“I said it was an accident.”
“. . . the possibility of an electronic floor plan that I could access?” I said. Jack’s grip on my elbow got tighter and I shook him loose.
Richie exhaled a little bit and looked like if he could have put us in a time machine and gone back about thirty seconds, he would have. He returned to blowhard building tycoon. “Of course! Madeleine,” he said, turning to a blowsy blonde on his right, “give Ms. . . .”
“Bergeron,” I said. A martini was handed to me and I took a hearty sip.
“. . . Bergeron a card, would you?”
Madeleine pulled a card out of a binder she was holding and handed it to me. She tapped an acrylic nail on the Web site address. “Here you are? And if you have any questions, please feel free to call me anytime, day or night?” Oh, she was one of those, I thought. A questioner. A person whose every sentence ends with a question mark.
I thanked her. I didn’t think I’d have any questions that would occur to me in the middle of the night but if I did, I would definitely call her immediately.
Before I could tell Richie what a pleasure it was to have met him, Jack had steered me into the middle of the restaurant, as far away as we could get from Kraecker. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What was that?” he asked. He grabbed a glass of champagne off of a tray floating by on the outstretched hand of a waiter and downed it one gulp. “I didn’t actually think you were going to do that. Kevin said you were hard-headed . . . but . . . that . . .” He sputtered a little bit and handed his glass off to another waiter who handed him another glass of champagne. That one disappeared down his gullet just as quickly as the first.
“I told you why I was coming.”
He looked at a spot over my head. “I know you did.” He let out a big breath and deflated a little bit. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
I drained my martini glass and set it on a tall cocktail table. “Maybe you’re right,” I agreed. “Thanks for the invite. Now, where did you say my boyfriend was parked?”
With a full set of directions as to Crawford’s whereabouts, I left the restaurant and headed back down the street toward Broadway, tottering unsteadily on my high heels. I spotted Crawford’s car across Broadway and calculated that I would have to cross four lanes of traffic to get to him. But then I calculated that it was worth the risk.
A woman in a cocktail dress, flimsy wrap, and high heels walking across Broadway wasn’t a common sight, and I have to admit I did get a few catcalls. Car horns blared at me as I made my way across the first two lanes of traffic, followed by the second two lanes after a brief wait on the median for the light to change. As I got closer, I could see Crawford’s face in the passenger’s side car window and, despite the anger that initially passed across his face, my unsteady gait, accompanied by the last catcall—“Can I have an order of fries with that shake!?”—made him burst out laughing. I finally made it to the back door of the cruiser and hopped into the scummy backseat. Fred was sound asleep in the driver’s seat, snoring loudly.
“Hey, I’ve never been in the backseat of the cruiser,” I said.
“It’s not a cruiser,” Crawford droned from the front seat. The entire first three months of our relationship had centered on the definition of “cruiser” and he was clearly tired of that conversation. “Can I join you?” he asked, turning around. “We could make out.”
I didn’t respond, figuring I would get business out of the way. “Jack McManus doesn’t have the stomach for amateur sleuthing.” I closed the back door with a loud thunk. “And Richie Kraecker’s got something to hide.”
Nine
The phone was nestled between my head and the pillow and Max was blathering on about the party the night before. I tried to stay coherent.
“That is some set of teeth on your date,” Max said. “I didn’t notice that at the hockey game.�
�
Probably because you were three sheets to the wind, as my beloved father used to say.
She continued. “And here’s what I learned about Morag Moragna.”
I looked at the clock and saw that it was six thirty in the morning. Chances are Max hadn’t been to bed yet from the night before. Morag wasn’t really my concern but Max seemed to feel compelled to tell me everything she knew, and I was happy to listen—as long as I could listen while in my bed, my head buried in Trixie’s neck.
I had gotten home nice and early, all dressed up with no place to go. After I had reported everything I had surmised from my meeting with Richie, Crawford left Fred standing on the corner while he dropped me off at the train station.
“You’re not a detective, you know,” were his last words to me. I suspected we would have a long talk about a few other things when we had the chance; we made our usual promise for a Sunday night date, which was only a few days hence. I had given him a long kiss and jumped out of the car when I heard the train whistle blaring a few feet down the tracks.
Max was still talking, even though I didn’t care one iota about Morag Moragna. I asked her why she did.
“I made a mistake with Richie and I am fascinated to find out why another gorgeous, successful woman would make the same mistake.”
So, no self-esteem problems there. And to think I had been worried about her, given her jealousy of some autopsy lady.
Max continued. “She’s a supermodel, but we already knew that. And she was on the 2004 Swiss Olympic team.”
Of course she was.
When I didn’t reply, she continued. “When she told me that, I immediately thought skier because of her build, but it turns out I was only half right. She was one of those goofy biathletes—you know, those ones who cross-country ski, stop, and then shoot at things?”
I didn’t think that the people who trained to be biathletes considered their sport “goofy,” but that was a discussion for another time. I couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time so anybody who could ski and shoot while remaining upright was OK in my book.
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