Babs brightened and immediately began pulling on a pair of sneakers for the trek we silently knew we had to make to Staten Island and the law offices of Vertigo Valentine.
Sebastian glared at me and firmly stated, “No.”
Chapter 38
“No, what?” I asked.
“No, the pair of you do not need to go traipsing out to Staten Island at . . . ” Sebastian checked his watch, “oh crap, one in the morning.”
“Wow.”
“Wow what?”
“You’ve only known Babs and me for about four months and already you’ve got our silent communication systems down. That’s amazing.”
“Not really. The pair of you may be the next Tony Award winners for best actress for next season but in person your abilities in the art of subterfuge sucks. It was obvious the second Babs went for the sneakers what you had in mind. Which is why I repeat, ‘no.’” Sebastian growled.
“But why?” I asked.
Sebastian raised his eyes to the heavens for guidance. “Because, I reiterate, it’s one in the morning. Everyone is asleep which is what you two need to be doing and what I need to be doing and there is absolutely no point in barging into an empty office to interrogate the woman.”
“But why?” asked Babs.
Sebastian remained moderately patient in the face of toddler questions.“Jean is probably not your killer since she's been around Manhattan legal circles for years and is generally considered a good egg, even if she has bad taste in her apparel. Plus, even if she has jumped the proverbial shark and excuse me for mentioning that word, you do realize that I don’t have one smidgen of probable cause to ask for a warrant to search Jean Liuzzi’s house, car or office?” Sebastian commented.
Babs dove in with “Why the hell not? I don't care how long she's been an attorney. If she’s behind all this we need to get her ass into jail like today! Or tomorrow. Whichever one comes first.”
I stared at Babs for a long moment, then finally stated. “He’s right, Babs. Aside from the whole middle of the night and warrant thing, there’s absolutely nothing to indicate that Jean is any guiltier than the other patrons who heard our plans at Maria’s that night. It was just kind of odd that she was there and didn’t mention it to us. What if she casually mentioned our plans to Vertigo and he maybe wanted to take over the Carmosina operation instead of being the mob attorney? Anyway, we don’t even know where her office is.”
Sebastian nodded. “That being said, I’m going to leave you two and head home. I’m sorry not to take off into the wilds of Manhattan since you both look absolutely wonderful but I think we need to leave running amok and possibly theorizing as to where to run amok next until everyone’s had a good eight hours sleep. Why don’t I meet you both at the hospital around ten a.m.? I’m sure Joey will be up and around by then and ready for visitors or possibly for a way out of there. And I could use another prescription for pain meds."
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
Babs nodded in affirmation. I walked Sebastian to the door, chatted about how Joey must be feeling (physically) since Sebastian had been there and done that and understood what life was like with a bullet hole in a limb. Finally, he bestowed a polite kiss on my forehead then headed down the hall before I could grab him, destroy my resolve and persuade him to stay in my room for the rest of the night to engage in activities more pleasurable than hunting possible killers.
I stayed in the doorway and waited until Sebastian disappeared inside the elevator. Then I turned back around, headed into the apartment and immediately demanded, “Did you find it?”
Babs grinned. “Hell yeah. Hit the search engines the instant you two were in the hall. Nice stalling, by the way.”
I bowed. “Thank you. So, where’s the office?”
“I found out that Vertigo Valentine and Associates, including the associate we’re looking for, has two locations. One in Staten Island and—wait for it—that funky building in the West Village. The Van Boagert Building. Know what I’m talkin’ about? It’s right off Perry Street. Dang! I had no idea any businesses actually inhabited that place.”
“I know that building. Well, not exactly that building but the place next door. Jazz Babies. It was a speakeasy back in the 1920s. There’s supposed to be tunnels that booze got smuggled into. The whole area is haunted. We show it at Hollywood FX. Which reminds me. I need to call the museum answering machine and let them know I need an understudy for tomorrow. Today, that is. Hang on two seconds.”
I called and left the message that I needed to swap tour shifts then turned back to Babs. “Ready?”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know if there’s anything incriminating to find at the law office but it beats sitting around fretting. And I’ll bet if there is anything incriminating it’d be at the Manhattan office and not the Staten Island one since they probably want to keep that as clean as possible so clients don’t freak about various murders being planned there. Besides, hitting a haunted speakeasy might take my mind off seeing my boyfriend getting shot and could actually be rather comforting if you get my drift at all.”
“Got it. Okay. Let’s give it like five minutes to be sure Sebastian isn’t waiting in the lobby to check if we’re sneaking out, then let’s sneak out.”
“Ten. I adore your sexy detective boyfriend but I don’t trust him and I’m sure he’s as crafty and untrustworthy as we are when it comes to this kind of stealthy activity.”
I nodded. “We both should use the little girls’ room before we hit the road anyway. Could be a long night sleuthing and who knows when we’ll get another chance.”
Babs sighed. “That’s the worse thing about getting older. I used to be a damned camel. Now when I hit midtown to go shopping I first check to see which stores have public restrooms.”
Ten minutes later, we were refreshed and relieved and ready to find out what we could about Jean Liuzzi and Vertigo Valentine and the murders and shootings that had taken place since December.
“Walk or taxi?” I asked once we’d reached the street.
“Walk. I’m still stuffed from dinner and I also need something aerobic to keep me from kicking a fire hydrant or tree or the nearest innocent St. Paddy’s partygoer. I’m still way too angry about Joey getting shot.”
“With you. On all counts.”
It took us about thirty minutes to walk from our building to the winding streets of Greenwich Village. We were on a mission and we were going to find out who did what to whom and why before the night was over.
I stopped at West 12th Street even though we had the light.
“What?”
“I feel twitchy.”
“Well, duh, Boots. We’re about to break into the office of a possible killer and my boyfriend was shot less than six hours ago and that possible killer might be waiting for us at the office or somewhere here in the street. We’d be crazy—or in a coma—if we didn’t feel twitchy.”
We lapsed into silence for the next ten blocks or so to Perry Street, then onto some street that didn’t appear to have a name—or perhaps no one had ever bothered to put up a sign. We spotted Jazz Babies, which was in the process of being redone as a Retro night club in a Twenties speakeasy style, then we stood in awe of the building next door, which had the look of a place that should either have been condemned by the city forty years ago or was a nice haven for vampires, smugglers and any ghosts who were pissed at being tossed out of Jazz Babies due to ongoing construction. It had to be over two hundred years old. Smugglers had probably popped in from Canal Street during the American Revolution to stow some cargo and have a sleepover before hitting the next tavern.
“Whoa.”
“I agree. Can we say haunted for centuries here? Are you sure you read the address right?”
“Well, there wasn’t really an address. It just said The Van Boagert Building next to Jazz Babies. Since there’s nothing but a vacant lot on the other side, I’d say we’re in the right place.”
“It’s creepy enough to h
ouse a herd of murdering attorneys, that’s for sure.”
Babs nodded. “So, how do we get in? Want to take a stab that the front door is unlocked at what is now close to two in the morning?”
“I don’t really want to be seen entering that way. Plus, that door looks heavy. We’d have to smash the glass to get in. Not a wise plan. We could always hit Jazz Babies and head downstairs to where those crafty little bootleggers built tunnels. I’m sure they connect. Or we could try that partially opened window on the first floor. On the side facing the lot. I guess no one worries about burglars around here?”
We glanced around. No one was in the street. At least no one who appeared sober. Several folks who’d just exited Jazz Babies were singing "Danny Boy" and the rather odd choice of "Livin’ la Vida Loca" at the top of their lungs. Fortunately they appeared more interested in trying to stand upright than in checking out the two old broads who’d managed to squeeze through the broken chain-link fence I assumed had been slapped up to keep the curious from wandering through the lot.
I’d spotted the partially opened window from the street but it was in the middle of the building. We had to tromp through weeds and trash to get to it.
Babs suddenly stopped. “Oh my.”
“What? Who? Where?”
“Nothing. No one. Nowhere. But it has just hit me, Bootsie, my buddy, that we are about to be official three strike felons. First time was breaking into that house about a thousand years ago that I wanted to buy although the statute of limitations should be over by now. But we broke into the museum office to get the disk of my commercial and now we’re about to break into the offices of a full-fledged member of the New York Bar Association.”
“Well, Jean is still our attorney. Maybe she can represent us?” I paused. “If she doesn’t shoot us first.”
“You feeling twitchy again?”
“Hell yeah. I keep waiting for someone to jump out from behind a dumpster or one of those barrels and start firing away.”
“Okay, let’s just get inside if we can and look around and see if we find anything to incriminate the woman and her boss and get the hell out.”
We’d reached the window. Babs exhaled. “Crap. It’s too high.”
“Hey, we did this before. We can do it again.”
“Shit. That was thirty-odd years and thirty-odd pounds ago for both of us. I can’t climb on top your shoulders for that shove inside.”
“This is true. Okay. Vacant lot with a dumpster. There’s got to be something out here that’s sturdy enough to stand on and get you slithering through that opening.”
We spent about five minutes wandering around the lot, humming along with the music we could hear coming from Jazz Babies, which kept shifting from traditional Irish tunes to hard-core rap to electric dance mixes and a bit of country and a few show tunes as well. I was softly and rather appropriately singing along with "Open a New Window” from the Broadway musical Mame when I found it. “Babs!“
“Yo!”
“Check it out. Stepladder. Perfect size and perfect weight.”
She grinned at me. “Our felonious guardian angels must be watching over us. Nice.”
I quickly trotted over to the ladder, which had been lying unobtrusively next to three cartons of broken beer bottles, grabbed it and trotted somewhat awkwardly back to Babs, who was patiently waiting underneath the narrow window. We set it up. She took two steps up, then began tugging and pushing at the window.
“Can you get it?” I asked.
“Yep. Two seconds here. My upper body strength isn’t quite what it was when we burglarized that house in Hoboken but I’ve got enough adrenalin still pumping from anger over Joey to help me move tall buildings and rusty windows in a single bound. And don’t say it. I’ve just mixed my metaphors and I don’t care.”
“Whatever.”
She gave the window another push and within seconds it had opened wide enough for a break-in. The ladder still wasn’t quite tall enough so I stepped up behind her onto the first rung.
“Ready?”
“Yep. Give the butt a shove and I’m in.”
I did. Babs slid inside, then turned back to me. “Back door? I’ll let you in from there.”
It had worked that way in Hoboken. I ran to the back of the building and waited. Within two minutes, Babs was cautiously opening the back of the Van Boagert building and we were inside.
“Oh my.”
I was too stunned to even respond. The Van Boagert building had looked like a quiet colonial ghost house from outside. Inside was something else. More like a bad set designer’s idea for a modern version of any vampire tale waiting to be told. The walls were black. Instead of overhead lights or ceiling fans, there were gaslights on walls next to switches I could only hope helped illuminate. One or two large paintings of landscapes that could represent Dante’s Inferno broke the starkness of the black with a lot of orange and red and more red. If this was the firm’s idea of scaring clients into giving up their criminal ways I would imagine it was quite effective.
A staircase took up the center of whatever room in which we’d made our entrance. It appeared sturdy and it also appeared that any business-type offices were upstairs so we silently nodded to each other, then began the climb.
It took us three minutes of peeking into dark rooms once we were on the second floor and wondering why we hadn’t brought a flashlight before I spotted a solid door with the Liuzzi on a tasteful nameplate to the side of that door, which was illuminated by tiny track lights coming from inside.
“Crap. It’s locked,” I growled.
“Well, I did learn some nice picking skills when I did that awful movie about the prison women. Got an old-fashioned bobby pin?”
I checked my purse. No hair pins but I did find a large dead paper clip. Metal. Not plastic. I handed it to Babs.
“Amazing.”
“What?”
“The junk you keep in your bag,” she smirked. “I keep a neat purse. After this I may switch to messy and cluttery. Never know when something will come in handy.”
“Sadly, I do not have a gun in there.”
“What?”
“Just sayin'. In case we run into a Carmosina goon or something.”
“Hush.”
“Am I scaring you, Babs?”
“No, you’re annoying me. I need to concentrate it I’m to get this . . . open!” Babs finished whatever she’d been doing with the lock and triumphantly swung Jean’s office door wide.
Once inside, Babs and I stared at each other.
“Santa Maria Miss Mona! Look at this place!” Babs chortled. “It’s the best little whorehouse on crack!”
Chapter 3 9
Babs had nailed it. Actually it was a flamboyantly tasteless set designer’s version of Miss Mona’s whorehouse (everything in red including the velvet wallpaper, sofa and client’s chairs) meeting Anatomy of a Murder. Comfy, worn furnishings that included a beat-up desk and a sixty-year old sofa. I expected Jimmy Stewart or Eve Arden to rise from the sofa and ask if we’d like to go fishing. Or Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds to ask if we wanted a job servicing Aggie boys. The walls were semi-modern; if movies posters could be called modern. A giant mirror had been placed over the ancient mahogany desk.
“I hope Jean isn’t our killer. I love this office. Anyone who works here has got to be nuts and is obviously very theatrically inclined,” I stated. “Maybe Jean is as innocent as we are? Sebastian said she's a good person. Maybe she told someone about our plan? Thought it was funny? Maybe it was whomever she was sitting with at Maria’s? There was another Audrey wannabe with her that night so maybe she’s connected with somebody else?”
“I don’t care. I simply want to know who the hell shot Joey and if it’s a movie queen wannabe, well, fine. So, what, precisely, are we looking for?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Copies of the email I sent you with ideas for bumping off Clay and Todd? Uh. Papers that explain that she and Vertigo want to take over Carmosina
’s operations and give them both power of attorney to do exactly that?”
Babs blinked. “Do you think that’s the motive? Frame us and kill off Mr. C? Plus Joey who's doubtless the heir?”
I shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Okay. Searching now.”
We spent the next ten minutes digging through anything that wasn’t locked down and we could put back without someone noticing. Finally I sank down into the very plush, comfy ergonomically correct chair behind Jean’s desk. “We’re idiots. There’s nothing here.”
Babs was on the floor digging through clean garbage. All papers. She looked up at me. “Want to call it a night or a morning and go grab some food or a brew next door?”
“Yeah. Some lousy sleuths we are.” I started to get up then sank back down. “Oh. My. God.”
“Say what?”
“Always look at the desk first.”
Babs hoisted herself to her feet. “Why?”
“Because people keep photos on desks. And I’ve just found a doozy.”
“Who? Who?”
“Damn. They even dress alike.”
“Who! You’re driving me crazy!”
“Take a look.” I handed her a framed photo. Five people were in the picture. One was Jean Liuzzi. Three I didn’t recognize. The fifth I did. “It’s Tammy.”
“Tammy? As in Tammy the bimbo who wanted to marry Clay? Tammy Tarantella?” She glanced at the photo. "Wow. That's her all right."
Before Babs and I had a chance to figure out the why, how and whens of Jean Liuzzi and Tammy knowing each other—or what that meant in the scheme of three murders and three shots fired, I heard the door to the front office open. The sound of muttering followed.
I froze and motioned Babs to stay silent.
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