He was staring past me, out the dark windows onto Park Avenue a story below. He lifted his glass but reconsidered halfway to his mouth and set it back down and, instead, rose and crossed the room to the window. I shifted on the couch to face him. My sides stabbed at the movement; I needed a Vicodin, more than one, and I was all out of Madeline’s stash. I wondered if Marks had anything that could help in his medicine cabinet.
“I went there, once, many years ago,” he said. “When Charlie was a teenager, Madeline just a baby. Their father was still alive. Do you remember him, Steve McKay?” I told him I did, but Marks didn’t seem to hear. “He was intense, that man. Smart, very smart, clearly, how else does one make all that money? But crazy. Full of animal spirits. Everything was done to excess with Steve. His work, his play. There were drugs and other women—Margaret was aware of both. And he also showed his love in the extreme. When he was around, he showered his kids with affection, his wife too. But then he’d be off again. He would disappear for days at a time. Margaret had him followed once. You’re not the first one she’s hired, you know? The investigator turned up more than enough. Margaret was prepared to file for divorce, but then Steve got sick. She didn’t have the heart to leave him at his bedside.”
I got up and went to the bar to help myself to another splash. My legs were unsteady beneath me, and the heavy crystal decanter shook in my hands as I tipped it over. Some bourbon soaked the countertop before it found its mark.
“Sounds like Madeline takes after her daddy,” I said.
“That she does. As an outside observer, without children of my own, it is my theory that kids are one parent or the other. They are never a combination of mother and father, even if their genes are a mix. They are one or the other. Charlie, of course, is Margaret’s son through and through. They are mirrors of each other. Same character, same temperament. So it was with Madeline and her father. She shares those wild animal spirits. And she absolutely adored him. She was very young when he died, so perhaps the relationship would have fractured with darker truths in later years, but something snapped in Maddie when her father passed away. They were kindred spirits, and ever since, I fear she’s been destructively searching for someone to take his place.”
A cell phone rang and danced on the dining table. Marks crossed the room and looked at the caller ID and frowned. Then he placed the phone to his ear and spoke before listening. “Let me call you back,” he said. “Give me twenty minutes.” He walked into the kitchen with the phone. “Wait, what?” he asked. “Oh, my God.” His voice dropped. He listened to the caller, whispered distressed replies I couldn’t hear. He returned looking ashen. “Duck, I’m sorry, something has happened. I’m going to have to see you out.”
“Anything to do with the McKays?” I asked.
“No, no. Nothing about Madeline,” he said. “A girl on our team. Lucy. My God, how could she . . .” His voice trailed away. “A swimmer on our team attempted to take her own life today. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to . . .”
No sense telling him I heard the news before he did. “Is she gonna be okay?” I asked.
“I don’t . . . I think, yes. I’m told she’s stable, at the hospital now.”
As I stood, the room spun, and I had to set a hand on the arm of the couch to steady myself. My vision filled with spots, my temples throbbed.
“You all right there, Duck?” I heard him say from somewhere far off.
I waited for the symptoms to pass and concentrated on my heartbeat. It worked, for the moment. Something like clarity returned, and I straightened up. “Might have a slight concussion,” I said. “I keep having these little episodes.”
“You should get yourself checked out,” he said. “I can put you in touch with an excellent doctor at NYU. Same guy who treats the Giants. I’ll send you his contact.”
Marks gathered my umbrella and opened the front door. The man was reeling from the news, eager to be rid of me. I asked if I could use his bathroom. He inhaled sharply through the nose and pointed down the hall. “First door on the right,” he said, closing the door.
There was nothing stronger than Advil in his medicine cabinet. Not a single orange prescription bottle of any sort, for anything. Was that even possible? Apparently, the man had no maladies. Or hid his meds elsewhere. Closing the cabinet, I had a look at my battered face in the mirror. It looked like I’d gone the distance with a mean middleweight. Marks was waiting where I’d left him by the door, his mind already at the hospital with his troubled swimmer.
“I’ll be back in touch,” I told him. “So sorry to hear about that girl.”
“Take care of yourself, Duck,” he said.
Outside the Brookshire, I crossed Park Avenue and waited in the shadows behind a parked black Suburban. I lingered there in the rain, fighting through waves of concussive symptoms. A cab pulled up, and the little top-hatted doorman scurried over and opened the back door. A moment later, Marks came rushing out and ducked in. His silhouette collapsed against the backseat as the cab pulled off in the rain toward the hospital.
Chapter 11
In the morning the pain got to work. The bruising in my face was a mosaic of purples and blues; my right eye was swollen shut, the eyelid puffed out like an allergic reaction. My ribs stabbed, my kidneys ached. I forced myself up and gathered some shreds of life with the help of four Advil, three cups of black coffee, and two Xanax. They wouldn’t do much for the pain, but at least they’d mellow out the dread.
I resolved to take Elvis for a walk without my phone. Get the blood flowing, breathe in some fresh air, try to enjoy the mindless clarity of a dog walk. I didn’t glance at the missed calls on my way out, didn’t want to know; just needed the manic, sniffing company of the hound as we weaved our way down through the East Village. We didn’t get far.
At a newsstand on the corner of 14th and Third I caught my first sight of that morning’s Post. There was Madeline McKay on the cover—her morose yearbook shot from Hewitt. The headline read SICK LOVE; the subhead announced: Murdered filmmaker’s psycho ex-girlfriend sought in slay. Fingerprints “all over” crime scene. Full Story, Pages 3–5.
I paid for a copy and opened to the story. It got worse inside. There was a sidebar about yours truly, with “reporting by Roy Perry.” Thanks, buddy. The piece was less than flattering. It mentioned my “notorious crook” father, my “drug bust” and time in Rikers, and my “reputation in society circles as a go-to divorce detective.” There was even an anonymous quote from a woman who claimed I had “bedded more than a few of the ladies he’s worked for.” A fine bit of reporting by the intrepid Mr. Perry, the prick.
The stories about Madeline didn’t reveal much I didn’t already know. Her big brother Charlie made an appearance, of course—“a genuine Olympic hero”—and Margaret received sympathetic billing as the “winsome worried widow.” The picture of her exiting her Gramercy co-op was a study in scandalous glamour: long black skirt, gray cardigan over high-buttoned white blouse; oversize sunglasses; frosted blond hair glued in place; one hand artfully up and shielding herself from the clicking cameras. The picture of Charlie was older; the Post couldn’t resist: He was shirtless, hands on his hips, clad only in a Speedo, with that tangle of gold medals on display across his shaved chest.
They claimed that Madeline’s fingerprints had been found all over Fealy’s apartment. They reported that she had been “stalking” him of late, after an ugly breakup, and that phone records showed a “disturbing pattern of obsession” with hundreds of text messages sent to her former lover in a “desperate bid” to get him back. They quoted Mike Schwartz, the roommate, who expressed his certainty that Madeline was involved. They uncovered a few more mourning friends who added glowing remembrances of the dead.
The last page of coverage was devoted to Fealy’s father, the hard-charging hedge fund manager, Max Fealy, whose tax returns showed that in the previous year he had earned $125 million in salary and bonuses. The devastated father had taken a leave of absence fro
m Soto Capital, where he was a senior partner, and he was ensconced with his family—his wife, Sara, and their surviving son, fifteen-year-old Tim—at the family’s home in Southampton.
I folded the paper under my arm and set back toward home. Elvis pulled in the other direction, knowing the walk was up. I told him I’d make it up to him with a long one later, but he just lunged at an open trash bag and howled at a passing squirrel. The rain had cleared in the night. It was going to be another humid one. The streets had the sticky, bug-infested feel of an urban rain forest under a moist ash sky. I was miserable with sweat by the time I reached my stoop.
There were nine voice mails, sixteen missed calls, and eighteen texts waiting on my phone. Not a promising sign. Perhaps I should have checked them upon waking, but at least I’d had three blocks of clueless bliss with Elvis before coming upon the Post. Most of the missed calls were from blocked numbers—the cops and the media. Both parties were eager to hear from me. Two of the voice mails and a bunch of the texts were from Roy Perry, first requesting comment on deadline, and then apologizing for what went to print. I texted back: WTF? and got on to the rest.
In reverse order of urgency, there were calls from other reporters at the Daily News, AM New York, and NY 1. Delete, delete, delete. There were calls and texts from a few concerned divorcées who’d seen the sidebar. There were calls from Charlie, asking to meet as soon as possible. And there were calls from Detective Lea Miller, requesting my presence at the Ninth Precinct at eleven a.m. I looked at the clock on my cable box and saw that it was already forty-five minutes past that hour. I called her back first, said I was on my way.
* * *
I found the Ninth on a quiet leafy block in the East Village. A few years back, the Fighting Ninth underwent a total rehab. They gutted it inside and out, bringing it up to modern standards in the early days of Bloomberg’s first term. The original white stone exterior was scrubbed and re-installed brick by brick and a seventh floor of glass and steel was added to the top. The only sign that it’s not another new condo building is the annoying cop parking out front. Always perpendicular to the street on precinct blocks; cops don’t have time to parallel park like the rest of us. The American flag hung limp over the entrance.
The interior was high and white and antiseptic, a place without humor or germs. A heavy young clerk was behind the desk. She was cranky and bored and smacked at her gum like a disinterested cow. I gave her my name and Detective Miller’s and was summarily escorted to the elevators and up to the fourth floor, where the Ninth’s Detective Squad was hard at work on the Fealy homicide.
Detective Miller did not smile when she saw me. She was cop cute—a hard little body and utilitarian curves. Her fashion choices were sexless: brown corduroys and worn blazer, sensible shoes, no jewelry, each choice a conscious attempt to erase any spark of attraction around her peers. She crossed the room with a stiff bow-legged strut.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” she said. “Rough day at the office?”
“Street toughs,” I said. “The gangs of Gramercy Park.”
“Dangerous part of town.”
“The worst.”
“Nice story in the Post,” she said. “I hear you know that reporter, Roy Perry. Some friend.”
“He’s no friend of mine,” I told her.
She led me across the fluorescent-lit room to her desk. I ignored the usual cop stares—recognized a few of them and knew better than to look back. She motioned to a chair desk-side and settled into her seat with short legs outstretched. She crossed those sensible shoes, a pair of black orthopedic loafers, and reached for a pad and pen.
“So, how do you know him?” she asked.
“Around.”
“Around where?”
“He’s an old friend, from when I used to be rich,” I said. “Oh, and I used to sell him weed before I went to jail.”
The blunt honesty tripped her tongue for a moment. She looked past me, across the room at her colleagues, then returned her gaze. “When’s the last time you were in a police station, Duck? Bring back memories?”
“All suppressed.”
“I didn’t think convicted felons were allowed to work as PI’s?”
“They’re not.”
“And yet . . .”
“I was helping an old family friend. Sometimes I like to help people with their problems. Sort of like you.”
She ignored this. “You have a previous relationship with Charles McKay, is that correct?”
“We swam on the same team when we were kids,” I said. “Before Margaret tracked me down, I hadn’t talked to him in twenty years.”
Miller looked at me with a wry smile. She made a few notes on her pad, took her time about it. A former gymnast, I thought again, or maybe a dancer, something that left her fit and flexible, and instilled that unmistakable discipline. She was free of any borough accent, had the air of a city girl born and bred. My guess: the blue was in her blood. A cop father who never had a son; daughter made detective early to make up for it. She thought she knew me too.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for an athlete, Duck,” she said.
“Long retired,” I told her. “In another lifetime people thought I was headed for the Olympics too.”
“So, what happened?”
“Life.”
“That has been known to happen.” I couldn’t tell if it was empathy in her voice, or mockery.
Before I could ask about her own jock past, we were joined by the less than athletic presence of her partner. His belly almost pushed me out of the chair as he approached from behind. “If it isn’t the PI who puked all over our crime scene. How’s it going, tough guy?” He offered a meaty hand over my shoulder. “Detective Sullivan,” he said. “Mind if I join you two?” He pulled up a chair from another desk and sunk into it across from Detective Miller. The chair creaked and protested under his weight but somehow held its ground.
“Who whipped his ass?” he asked his partner.
“Mr. Darley was just telling me about his illustrious past as a champion swimmer,” said Miller.
Sullivan picked some hard candies from a bowl on her desk and regarded me with open disdain. “Was that before daddy was busted?” he asked. He crunched into the candy. I didn’t reply, just looked back with my one open eye. “Seems you grew up with quite the silver spoon,” he said. “Little Lawrence Darley, a young prince of the Upper East Side. But then one day . . .” He held up his hand over his head and nosedived it in a downward arc, making crashing sounds as it went.
“So, what can I do for you guys?” I asked, fighting off the old rage. Again I pictured Cass giving it to the bastard with her strap-on, making sloppy Sullivan squeal like the pig he was. Made me smile.
The detectives exchanged a serious look. “Roy Perry told us you were drinking with him at a nearby bar, Zum’s, before you found Mr. Fealy.”
“Nice of him to give me an alibi,” I said.
“Duck, he’d been dead for a few days,” said Miller.
I shrugged. Sullivan leaned forward into my personal space. “How did you gain entry into the building?” he asked. “And the apartment?”
I looked at both of them. “You know, I already answered these questions the other night.”
“Humor us,” said Sullivan.
“I slipped through the front door after the Schwartz kid came home,” I said. “Then I responded to his screams. The apartment was open.”
“So, you were trespassing,” he said.
“Yes.”
Detective Miller scribbled something else in her pad. Sullivan kept trying to stare me down; I couldn’t get the image of Cass railing him out of my head.
“Aren’t there security cameras in the lobby of Fealy’s building?” I asked. “You guys must have footage of anyone entering or leaving the place.”
The partners glanced at each other, looked back at me.
“Madeline McKay was seen leaving the building last Monday afternoon on camera by the buildi
ng’s virtual doorman,” said Miller.
A chill coursed through me. So much for my instinct of her innocence. “Does that mean she did it?” I asked.
“Mr. Fealy’s parents informed us that their son did not return from Southampton until Tuesday morning,” she said. “The body had been there for a few days before you found him, but we haven’t determined the exact time of death yet.”
“So, his killer must have entered at some point after she left? What else did you find on the security footage?”
“We’re looking into it,” said Sullivan.
“There appears to have been an electrical problem in the building,” said Miller. “There’s a stretch where the cameras were not working.”
“Lovely. What’s a virtual doorman anyway?” I asked.
“It means some lazy fuck is supposed to be watching the screens from some warehouse in Jersey,” said Sullivan. “Helpful, huh?”
Miller made a few more notes. Sullivan crunched into a few more hard candies. They made a fine pair, fit for a TV pilot, the grizzled, overweight old-school cop and the undersized tough broad with the soft eyes.”
“When you searched Madeline McKay’s apartment, what did you find?” asked Miller, voice now as hard as her body.
“We found her stash of dope,” said Sullivan. “Any guess whose prints were all over it?”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the drugs in your statement?” asked Miller.
“Must have slipped my mind,” I said. “I was pretty shaken up after seeing Fealy’s body. As you noted, Detective Sullivan, I have a sensitive stomach. Oh, and I’d been drinking all day.”
“What did you take?”
“Just a few painkillers,” I said. I motioned to my bruised face. “After this little episode, they’ve been very helpful.”
“Duck, we could get a search warrant for your apartment,” said Miller. “I’m certain we’d find more than just pain pills in there. Now’s the time to tell us if you took anything else.”
Under Water Page 9