“I’m glad it’s over, for all concerned,” Frost said.
“We’re stuck with a set of covenants that would strangle a horse, but we’re going to grow Applications so much that it won’t matter. Other than the covenants, all it took was money—mostly the Wylies’ money. If I were them, I’d sue the hell out of Rawson and Schoonmaker.”
“Schoonmaker will make it up to them somehow.”
“Tell your man Richardson to send me a bill.”
“I will. I’m sure it won’t take much urging.”
Frost had a long, leisurely lunch at the Gotham Club Thursday noon. Following his own advice, he had taken the day off and was now listening to Austin Hulbert, at the common table, holding forth about a meeting at the White House at which one of the participants had been nipped by Millie, the Presidential dog.
“You didn’t read a word about it in the papers,” Hulbert, a prominent music impresario, said. “You’d think after Watergate those Washington reporters would stop protecting them—but I saw it happen.”
“Was she rabid, Austin?” a companion asked.
“No, no. The only rabid creature present was Senator Helms.”
While the others savored Hulbert’s story, Jasper Darmes, the doorman, appeared and whispered to Reuben that he had an urgent telephone call. Frost left the table and took it in a booth off the dining room.
It was Bautista. A very excited Bautista. “We’ve got a new one, Reuben. They found Genakis stabbed to death about an hour ago.”
“Where?”
“Outside his restaurant. Looks like he was stabbed with a goddam hunting knife.”
“Was it a robbery?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Where are you now?”
“At the restaurant.”
“Don’t go away. I’ll be right there.”
Frost did not return to the lunch table, but instructed Darmes to let his waiter know so he wouldn’t be back. “And tell the old croaks I had to leave on some urgent business. Otherwise they’ll have it all over town that I had a heart attack and had to be carried out.”
Marshall’s was only blocks from the Gotham Club. Frost thought of taking a cab, but decided it would be faster to walk. He was glad of his decision when he got to the block in while Marshall’s was located, where a convoy of police vehicles had stalled all other traffic. The area around the restaurant was cordoned off, but luckily he spotted Bautista, who had gotten into the restricted section.
From where he stood behind the NYPD “crime scene” yellow tapes, Frost could see one end of a body, covered with a blanket, protruding from the alleyway next to the restaurant.
Bautista came over and ducked under the tapes. “Let’s get out of here, unless there’s more you want to see. If so, I’ll try to arrange it.”
“I wouldn’t know what to look for,” Frost said. “Let’s go to my office.”
They walked west toward Clinton Plaza.
“You say this happened about eleven-thirty?” Frost asked.
“That’s right. Genakis usually came in around then to get ready for the lunch crowd. Somebody must have waylaid him, got him into the alley next to the place and gutted the poor bastard.”
“One of the denizens of the Fort Bliss neighborhood?”
“Could be, I suppose. Or maybe a dope dealer he tried to stiff.”
Frost walked in silence almost until they reached Chase & Ward’s building, then, suddenly turning to Bautista, asked, “Or is it possible this is Bill Richardson’s doing?”
“Richardson? He’s in France.”
“I hope so, my friend, I hope so. Let’s get the hell upstairs and make sure of that.”
Once inside, Frost dialed Richardson’s secretary.
“Ms. Weems, where is Mr. Richardson?”
“He’s on vacation this week, Mr. Frost. Skiing in France.”
“I know that. How do I reach him?”
“I have the number right here,” Ms. Weems said, reading it off. “He gave me strict orders that he didn’t want any client calls, but that doesn’t include you.”
“No, this is all in the family, Ms. Weems.”
“Family. That’s what the man who wanted his number yesterday said.”
“Oh? Who was that?”
“Someone named Marshall. He said there was an emergency he had to talk to Mr. Richardson about. A family matter.”
Frost tensed and scowled, as Bautista looked on. “Did you give him the number?”
“He was so agitated, I didn’t know what to do. But yes, I finally did. I hope I did the right thing.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. What time was this?”
“Let’s see. The middle of the afternoon. I’d say around three o’clock.”
“Thank you, Ms. Weems.”
“What’s that all about?” Bautista asked, when Reuben had hung up the phone.
“Someone named Marshall called Richardson’s secretary to get his number in France about three o’clock yesterday.”
“Holy hell.”
“I couldn’t make an overseas call on this damn phone if my life depended on it,” Frost said. “Let me get the operator.”
He gave the operator the instructions and then, while they waited, asked Bautista if he had “a friend at Air France.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Do you know someone at Air France?” Frost repeated, sternly.
“Yeah, I think I do. But what’s that got—”
The phone rang. It was the operator, announcing that she had Mrs. Richardson on the line. Holding the phone, Frost bent forward and scratched his head. When he sat upright again, his face was cheerful; all evidence of the impatience he had just shown with Bautista was gone. He searched for and turned on the speaker, reasonably certain that it could not be detected on the transatlantic connection.
“Nina, how are you?” he asked, in his friendliest, most expansive voice. “Is Bill there? I’m dreadfully sorry to interrupt your holiday, but I really must talk to him.”
“Oh, Reuben, I’m afraid not. He’s gone off to Paris today. To see a client. I’m so angry, I can’t tell you. We’d been having a lovely vacation, when Bill got this call last night absolutely demanding that he come to Paris first thing this morning. The call came just as we were sitting down to dinner, and poor Bill spent the rest of the night trying to figure out how to get to Paris. He had to drive to Geneva at dawn to get a flight.”
“You did say Paris?”
“Yes. He had to meet this person, or people, at the Crillon at eleven. He was furious, too, I can assure you.”
“Who was he meeting?”
“He didn’t say, Reuben. Bill has a rule that he never talks over his clients’ business with me.” Frost was grateful for Richardson’s self-imposed rule, one he did not apply to Cynthia; it meant he did not have to give a specific business reason for his intrusion on their vacation.
“When did he say he’d be back?”
“He was going to try and stay at the Crillon tonight and said with any luck he’d be back tomorrow morning.”
“Nina, I’m very sorry. How’s the skiing been?” Reuben felt slightly caddish, disguising the grave purpose of his call, but felt there was no point in alarming the woman unduly—or at least prematurely.
“The weather’s been wonderful. We’ve been out every single day. And Bill hasn’t broken anything, at least yet. So he won’t be hobbling around the office all spring.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“Shall I tell him you called?” Nina Richardson asked.
“No, I’ll try to do my business elsewhere and not interrupt your vacation any more. If I need him, I’ll call back.”
Hanging up on Nina Richardson, Frost immediately, without even a word to Bautista, asked the office operator to connect him to the Crillon in Paris. Within minutes he had learned from the hotel’s reception desk that no guest named Richardson was registered or expected.
“There. Now,” Fro
st said to Bautista, pointing to the other phone in the room, “get your friend at Air France. Find out what time the Concorde arrived this morning. Unless my feeble old memory fails me, it leaves Paris at eleven and arrives at Kennedy around nine. The miracle of supersonic flight. And see if there was a William Denning Richardson aboard. William Denning Richardson, William D. Richardson, W. Richardson, D. Richardson, Bill Richardson—check them all. Let’s not have one of your Willie Sutton situations. And—and—see if he’s booked on the overnight flight to Paris tonight. That’s the flight Cynthia and I always take. It has left at seven ever since the Wright brothers, and I expect it still does.
“Also,” Frost raced on, “I suppose, just for fun, you should see if he was booked on this afternoon’s Concorde. It would have left sometime after lunch. Probably too early for Richardson to have finished his business in time to catch it.”
“I see where you’re coming from, Reuben, but wouldn’t he have used an assumed name?”
“Luis, we don’t have time for questions now. We’ve just got to get busy. If he’s booked on that flight tonight he’s right here in New York and we can head him off at JFK.”
Within twenty minutes, Bautista had the information. “It’s a lucky thing Air France employs so many Hispanics,” he said. “There was a W. Richardson aboard the Concorde that arrived at eight forty-five this morning. And a W. Richardson is booked on their flight zero-seven-zero to Paris tonight. First class and with a connection to Geneva that will get him there a little after noon tomorrow.”
“Okay, here’s my plan. We’ll go to the airport and have a chat with Richardson. Air France has pretty compact quarters out there, but there’s always a chance he might slip through on us. Can you arrange to have their security people watch for him?”
“I’ll try. I’d better clue Petito in, too.”
“I suppose,” Frost said. “You might have Petito’s boys start checking the knife stores around Manhattan, beginning with the area around here, where my impression is that every store that’s not selling dirty books sells knives. Use the phone next door and we won’t get in each other’s way. Oh, and one other thing, have your friends check Genakis’ telephone calls yesterday. And the ones on his private number at the restaurant.”
“I don’t know what that number is.”
“Well, I do,” Frost replied, his face lighting up with a small, pleased smile. “I wrote it down here in my notebook when we paid him our visit the other night.”
“You’ll make a detective yet, Reuben.”
Frost had maneuvered Bautista out of the room because he wanted the privacy to explore an idea inspired by his conversation with Nina Richardson. It was something he should have thought of days ago, he realized, as he called Joe Conklin, the security director, and asked a question. He was saddened that the answer he received almost certainly meant the end of his fading hope that Bill Richardson might somehow be exonerated. Still he was exhilarated at the prospect of solving the murders of Juliana Merriman and Marshall Genakis.
CHAPTER
23
End of The Road
Luis Bautista knew Frost well enough to recognize that he was deep in thought as they rode in a taxi to Kennedy Airport and would not appreciate being interrupted. It was only when they passed the World’s Fair site in the middle of Queens that Frost spoke, giving Bautista a chance to ask how Reuben had known that Richardson would be traveling under his own name.
“What choice did he have, Luis? He was stuck with his own passport and his own credit cards. Not much time, or much opportunity, to invent a false identity. Besides, if he kept out of sight, his only risk was being seen on the Concorde. I concede that’s a real possibility, since the only people other than rock stars who use it seem to be lawyers. But a desperate situation requires desperate measures.”
“You haven’t said so, but I assume you think Richardson killed Merriman, too.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got a problem with that. I know the guy’s alibi is kind of fuzzy for December twenty-ninth, but we’re pretty sure he left your firm before Merriman was killed.”
“That’s one of the things I want to ask him about,” Frost said, noncommittally.
The prospect of a confrontation with Richardson brought the conversation down to logistics. Frost outlined a plan, which he soon repeated to the director of Air France security at the airport and two puzzled detectives from the Port Authority police who had been pressed into service by Dave Petito.
“Subject to you gentlemen agreeing, here’s what I have in mind,” Frost said. “I know there’s a private room off the first-class lounge upstairs. I propose to wait there, if it’s free.”
“We’ll make sure of that,” the security officer said.
“When Richardson checks in, he’ll undoubtedly go up to the lounge,” Frost went on. “I want Mr. Bautista here to follow him, and then steer him to where I am.”
“I’ve never met him,” Bautista said.
“I know that. But can’t you, Mr., ah …”
“Sullivan,” the security officer prompted.
“Mr. Sullivan. Can’t you stand behind the check-in clerks—they’re only two for first class I believe—and give Bautista the high sign?”
“Sure.”
“Once I’m with Richardson, I want you, Luis, to wait outside. Just in case he still has his knife. Now, gentlemen,” he said, turning to the two detectives, “I don’t know how much Officer Petito has told you about all this.”
“Not much.”
“The man we’re after, William Richardson, is suspected of murder. Rather than arrest him and have him take the Fifth Amendment, I’m going to talk to him. I’ve known him for many years and he may come clean with me. If he does, I’ll give you some sort of signal—you tell me what—and you can arrest him. But I may come up dry, as Mr. Bautista here likes to say. If that happens, no signal, no arrest. Is that satisfactory?”
“Detective Petito said we should be guided by you fellows.”
“Good. So how do I signal you? Or not signal you?”
“How about your pocket handkerchief?” one of the detectives said. “If you come out of that room fingering your handkerchief we’ll make the collar. Otherwise we let him walk.”
“That’s perfect,” Reuben said.
Perfect, but damned unpleasant, Frost thought, as he waited upstairs in the separate room off the first-class lounge. Wasn’t he being devious, looking to trap his former partner? No, he argued with his conscience, he was giving Bill Richardson a last chance to clear himself, to show that they had gone down the wrong road—that he and Bautista and Petito should have been pursuing Harvey Rawson or another person whose identity they had not guessed. If only it were Rawson it would make life easier, Frost thought, sadly.
Shortly after six, Bill Richardson, without luggage but with a copy of Forbes under his arm, stepped up to the first-class counter. Sullivan nodded to Bautista, standing several feet away.
Richardson was checked in, handed a boarding pass and two drink chits, and directed to the elevator behind him, which would take him up the two flights to the first-class lounge. Bautista unobtrusively joined him in the elevator and then followed him as he showed his boarding pass to the attendant and headed for the bar. He ordered a double scotch on the rocks, and when he turned, drink in hand, Bautista approached him.
“Mr. Richardson?”
“Yes,” he replied. He was startled at being recognized, but Bautista, avoiding any hint of the mannerisms acquired in his years on the police force, did not act threatening. He could have been an airline service representative, which was exactly the impression he was trying to convey.
“There’s someone here to see you, sir. Could you come with me?” Bautista said, pointing toward the doorway at the side of the room. “This way,” he directed, gently guiding Richardson’s elbow.
“What’s this all about?” Richardson asked.
“Just come this way, sir, there’s someone to
see you.” Still with his hand laid gently on Richardson’s elbow, he opened the sliding door and managed to slip behind the lawyer so that he could not bolt once he had seen Frost.
Richardson started when he saw his old colleague, now on his feet, by a brown sofa along one wall.
“Hello, Bill.”
“What the hell’s going on here?” he asked, looking first at Reuben and then back at Bautista.
“Come sit down,” Frost said, pointing at a chair at a right angle to the sofa. Outwardly he appeared so calm that he could have been welcoming Richardson to his office or his town house.
Richardson hesitated, apparently realizing that he had met his physical match in Bautista; the rough stuff learned years before as a Green Beret wouldn’t help him. There was little point in attempting to leave.
“Reuben, I don’t understand this. I’ve got a plane to catch,” he said, as Bautista left and slid the door shut.
“I’m sorry to surprise you this way. But some questions have come up that need answers very urgently.”
“I suppose this is about Juliana Merriman.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Bill, we’ve known each other for a quarter of a century or thereabouts, so I’m not going to beat around the bush. You are in very serious trouble. You’re about to be arrested for the murders of Merriman and Marshall Genakis.”
“Reuben, I’ve never heard such rot in my life. If this is your idea, they’ll have you in a nursing home—for the senile—when this is over.”
“Bill, let me say something. Please bear with me and don’t interrupt. You know, when trouble comes in people’s lives—and I don’t exclude myself from this—there’s often a temptation to do something that may not be quite straightforward. You’ve seen it. I’ve seen it. A simple piece of paper that’s terribly damaging to a client, for example. Or maybe to one’s performance as a lawyer. There’s a great urge to destroy that piece of paper, even though it would be unethical and probably illegal. So why don’t we destroy it? Conscience perhaps, or a sense of professional ethics. Or maybe just the practical realization that one will be found out. A xerox of the incriminating document will show up somewhere else. Or someone will testify that it existed. But every so often one of our brethren gets into trouble, because he has mistakenly thought that he won’t be discovered, that he has been so clever no one will catch up with him, that he’s somehow outside the rules that govern others. Then it turns out he’s wrong, and disgrace—or worse—follows. Do you understand me?”
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