He leaned across the desk. “Am I going to do that, or are you going to cooperate?”
Still wearing his impassive expression, Alex weighed his options. If he dug in his heels, a search warrant would yield information he’d rather the police didn’t have and lead them to Millstein anyway. On the other hand, he couldn’t admit responsibility for Millstein’s escape without incriminating himself. He decided on an evasive maneuver.
“I think I can save us both a lot of trouble. As you no doubt know, the Peace Center provides helpful advice to people seeking to emigrate from the United States, all perfectly legal. We don’t inquire as to their motives.”
Like hell, you don’t, thought Sheik. But let’s hear the rest of your horseshit.
“Of course, being pacifists, as our name indicates, we assume that many of those who come to us are against the war in Vietnam. It’s their right to express that opposition by leaving the country. And we’re not the only group helping them. If they choose to go to Canada, we refer them to organizations there that can facilitate the process.”
Sheik was tiring of Alex’s monologue. “Get to the point.”
“What I’m saying is that I can get in touch with those organizations and find out if your suspect—what did you say his name was?”
Jesus fucking Christ, as if you didn’t know, said Sheik to himself. “William Millstein. Want me to spell it?”
“No, that’s all right, I think I have it,” said Alex, jotting down the name in a pantomime of accommodation. “As I was saying, I can find out if they’ve had contact with him and let you know. It shouldn’t take long. Give me a number where I can reach you.”
Sheik would not accept stalling tactics. “How about right now?” He pulled up the folding chair and sat by the desk. “I’ll wait.”
Fortunately Alex had put through a call to Montreal as soon as TJ left his office, so the committee people knew the story and were no doubt already working on verifying Millstein’s alibi.
“Very well,” he conceded, “have it your way. I’ll try Montreal first, they’re the closest.” He reached for his Rolodex, pretended to look up a number he knew by heart, and dialed. When the call was answered, he kept his tone impersonal, even though it was a familiar voice at the other end of the line.
“Hello, this is Alexander Clifford. I’m calling from the Greenwich Village Peace Center in New York. To whom am I speaking? Hello, Mr. MacDonald. I wonder if you can help me. I have a police detective here in my office who’s looking for a man who may have emigrated from here to Canada recently.”
At the other end of the line, Ian MacDonald got the message loud and clear. The cop was right there and might even be listening in on an extension.
“Certainly, Mr. Clifford. Let me have the man’s name, and I’ll see what I can do.” Alex gave him the name, the one he expected.
“Any idea when he might have crossed?” MacDonald asked.
Alex looked up from the receiver and spoke to Sheik. “He wants to know when.” That alerted MacDonald that only one phone was being used, but he still assumed the cop might be able to hear him.
“Last Thursday, November second,” said Sheik. Alex relayed the information to MacDonald, who said he’d look into it and call him back. Alex went through the motions of giving him his telephone number.
“It’s a criminal complaint, not an immigration matter,” he explained, as if MacDonald didn’t know. “I’m sure you understand we want to give the police our full cooperation. So if you have no record, will you check with Toronto for me? Thank you very much, Mr. MacDonald. I look forward to hearing from you as soon as possible. Goodbye.”
This elaborate formality was making Sheik gag. What a charade. I suppose he has to cover himself, but give me a break. He probably talks to this Canadian asshole two or three times a week.
Alex replaced the receiver and folded his hands. “So there it is. I’ve done what I can do. Believe me, I don’t want the kind of trouble you described so graphically, so I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I have any information at all.”
Sheik rose and handed over his card. “If I don’t hear from you within an hour, I’ll be back with that warrant, and you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
“Message received, and understood,” said Alex, his voice as restrained as his manner. As he watched Sheik leave, he silently cursed the God he didn’t believe in for wasting such good looks on such a ball-breaker, and a straight one at that.
* * *
By the time Sheik got back to Midtown North there was a message waiting for him from a Mr. Clifford, with a return number. He thanked the desk sergeant, took the slip to his office, and put the call through.
“Clifford? Valentino here. What have you got for me?”
“Ian MacDonald called me back to inform me that your man did enter Canada and pass through Montreal. He arrived there on October thirtieth. From the little you told me, I inferred that the murder took place after that date, am I right?”
Cursing silently, Sheik was not going to admit his disappointment, nor was he going to take Alex’s word for it. “I’m sure you realize I need proof of that.”
“Of course. All those who are processed by the Committee to Aid American War Objectors are registered on arrival with the Canadian Immigration Service. That’s a government agency. Millstein was taken to their office the morning after he arrived and officially logged in on October thirty-first. MacDonald is mailing me a photostat of the record. Should arrive in a couple of days. I’ll personally deliver it to you. There’ll be a log number on it, so if you want to, you can contact the CIS for verification.”
Sheik clenched his teeth. Shit, there goes the most likely one down the drain. “Does Millstein know about the murder charge?”
Alex was enjoying this. If Sheik could have seen him, he’d have resented the smile the peacenik wore as he spoke. “I couldn’t say. I don’t know his present whereabouts. They don’t tell us, you see, for security reasons. I’m sure you understand. But I’d guess they’ll get a message to him, just to let him know the charge has no merit. I assume you’ll rescind the warrant? Under the circumstances, the Canadians are unlikely to honor it.”
“Not until we have the proof and get it verified,” said Sheik coldly, eager to end his conversation with this patronizing pansy. “Notify me as soon as you have the document.”
“Certainly. Always happy to help law enforcement. Peace, brother.” He hung up, a self-satisfied smirk still on his face.
* * *
Sheik decided to share the news of this setback with Falucci, whose office was next door. The door was ajar, and he found his fellow detective deep into a pile of paperwork. The Benton murder was not their only open case.
“Hey, Tony, got a minute?”
“Do me a favor and interrupt me,” said Falucci, glancing up as he slammed a bulging folder shut, “though you don’t look like you’re gonna be very good company.”
Sheik slumped into a chair and offered Falucci a cigarette. The two men lit up, and Sheik expelled a deep lungful of smoke, as if he could breathe out his frustration with the tobacco fumes.
Falucci regarded him with sympathy. “Okay, pal, what’s the beef?”
Sheik recounted his visit to the Peace Center and his telephone call from Alex Clifford. “If that prissy turd is telling the truth—and you better believe I’m gonna check that document real carefully—Millstein is out of the picture. So much for suspect number one. Now Breinin moves to the top of the list. In fact he’s the only one left on it. Have you had him back in yet?”
“I sent Jenkins down to pick him up. They’re not back yet, should be any time.”
“You gonna tell him about the red jacket sighting?”
“Yeah, sure. One more nail in his coffin. Might just make him realize we’ve got the goods on him. I’ve thought all along that him being so vocal
about hating Benton made him too obvious, but like you said, with Millstein eliminated he’s all we got now.”
Thirty-Nine
Wednesday, November 8
TJ was waiting outside Ellen’s building when she came down at half past eight. They walked together to the subway, caught the local, and arrived outside the Automat twenty minutes later. Across the street, several students were already waiting for the League’s doors to open for the nine o’clock classes.
“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “I’ll be back here as soon as I find out what Chris and Dan are up to. You go on in now, you don’t want to be late for work.”
“Five more minutes won’t matter,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him. He returned her embrace, they kissed, and like lovers everywhere lost track of time as they immersed themselves in each other. Only when they heard the loud squeak of the hinges on the League’s iron grillwork gates did they snap out of it.
“One more kiss for luck,” said TJ, as he bent down again, and she rose on tiptoe to meet his lips. She waved him off as he jaywalked to the opposite side of Fifty-Seventh Street and entered the League.
Inside the lobby he spotted Chris heading toward the twin studios at the far end of the main hallway and followed him to Studio Fifteen. When he entered, he found Chris wiping down the bench easels and Dan removing his sketch pad from his locker. Lucky I got them both at once, he thought. That last kiss worked like a charm.
Chris saw him first. “Hi, TJ, this is a surprise. You haven’t quit John Jay and signed up full-time here, have you?”
“I’m not ready to take that leap yet,” he replied, “not as long as the war lasts, for sure. My student deferment is too precious to lose.”
Dan heard their exchange and joined them. “So what brings you here so early?”
“I need to talk to you both,” said TJ, and motioned them into the side hallway that flanked the studio, where they could speak privately.
“Ellen told me what you found out about Wally Green’s father. Are you planning to tell the police?”
“We thought we ought to wait until we got more information,” said Chris. “I didn’t hear the whole story. We don’t know that Gruen’s leaving had anything to do with Benton, and we don’t want to make trouble for Wally or his dad for no reason.”
Dan chimed in. “We thought about going back to Brackman to get the rest of the story, but Chris said he mentioned that he didn’t know the details. So we’re thinking maybe we should ask Klonis. He was here then, and he was on the Board of Control, so he should be able to tell us what happened.”
“That’s a great idea,” said TJ, “if he’s willing to tell us.”
“Let’s find out,” said Chris.
* * *
As usual, Stuart Klonis was at his desk. The past week’s chaos had left him little time to reflect on the long-term consequences of Benton’s murder, but he realized that the longer it took to solve the case the worse it was for the League. Repeated calls to Inspector Kaminsky had yielded nothing of consequence, except that one of his most prominent instructors was still under suspicion. As long as Breinin hadn’t been charged, Klonis felt it was his duty to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he was hearing rumors that some of the students, and even one or two of the other instructors, were not being so fair-minded. So when Rosina Florio buzzed him to announce that a student delegation wished to see him, he feared there would be a demand to fire Breinin on suspicion. Reluctantly, he told his secretary to send them in.
Klonis recognized Chris Gray as the winner of the coveted Abbey Scholarship, vaguely remembered Dan Forsberg as a full-time student, but couldn’t place the redheaded youth who accompanied them. So as not to embarrass him, Chris introduced himself and his companions and explained their mission.
“We hope you won’t think we’re out of line, sir, but we think there may be another angle to the Benton case, and we’re hoping you can help us.”
This was not what Klonis was expecting to hear. Immediately relieved, as well as curious, he invited them to pull up chairs and tell him what was on their minds.
Chris told him what he’d overheard in the cafeteria. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, sir, it wasn’t, like, a private conversation. But what Mr. Brackman said made me wonder if there was a connection between what happened to Mr. Gruen and, ah, what happened to Mr. Benton.”
Klonis saw what he was getting at, albeit indirectly. “You mean, you think Gruen murdered Benton? Why would he do that?”
“Well, if it was Benton who got him fired, that would be a motive,” suggested TJ, who believed Gruen was no longer capable of exacting vengeance.
“It all happened more than thirty years ago,” Klonis reminded them, “A long time to harbor resentment strong enough to motivate someone to kill. Mind you, I wouldn’t have ruled it out, given the circumstances, except that Gruen is no longer living. A very sad situation, one I’ve always felt a bit guilty about.” He shook his head at the memory.
“What circumstances?” asked Dan.
Klonis leaned his chin on his hands and reflected. “You have to remember how influential Tom Benton was in those days. He was arguably the most prominent artist in the country, and his presence added luster to the League. He attracted students at a time when we were in dire financial straits. He knew what an asset he was, and he used that leverage to get Gruen fired. To the board’s discredit, we capitulated, and it was the beginning of the end for Gruen. He left in disgrace, and ironically, within a few months Tom was gone, too—off to Kansas City with no fond farewells.”
Once again Dan picked up on Klonis’s remark. “How do you mean, disgrace?”
Klonis sighed. “Oh, well, they’re both dead, so I guess I might as well tell you. Tom had taken a shine to Gruen, became a mentor to him. As with other younger men he took under his wing, he invited him to his home, socialized with him, so the relationship was personal as well as professional. It was no secret that Gruen looked up to Tom, idolized him, really. They had the same humanistic philosophy about the social function of art, and I’m sure Gruen thought that associating with Tom would help his career.
“Unfortunately Gruen’s feelings went deeper than Tom realized. One night after evening class they were alone in the men’s room, and Gruen locked the door. Tom said Gruen told him he’d fallen in love with him and recognized him as a kindred spirit—a closeted homosexual whose machismo and marriage disguised his true nature, just as Gruen’s wife and son were his cover.”
The trio exchanged looks. They had decided to keep Wally’s relationship to Gruen to themselves if Klonis didn’t mention it. Perhaps he didn’t know, in which case they weren’t going to tell him.
Klonis continued, “As you know, Tom was not a large man, and Gruen was big and powerful. According to Tom, Gruen forced himself on him, they struggled, and Tom broke free and came straight here in an absolute rage. Lynn Fausett, a fellow muralist who was president at the time, and I happened to be working late, trying to balance the books. Tom stormed in, shouting that Gruen was a homosexual—though that’s not the word he used—who had accosted him in the men’s room, groped him, and tried to rape him. He threatened to call the police and charge him with assault. Of course that would have exposed Gruen’s homosexuality, which he’d been disguising his whole life.
“We calmed Tom down as best we could and promised to deal with the situation internally. The only thing that would satisfy him was Gruen’s immediate expulsion, so that’s what we did. We didn’t even have the guts to face him and hear his side. We sent a letter. Just fired him, no reason given, but it was obvious to him who was responsible. If we’d held our ground, called Tom’s bluff and mediated some sort of compromise, perhaps an apology, Gruen might not have…well, let’s just say he might still be alive.”
Forty
After thanking Klonis for his time, Chris and Dan headed back to the studio and TJ s
aid he had to report to Ellen before heading to John Jay.
“Looks like Wally’s a top suspect, all right,” said Chris, “but I hate to point the finger at him without more to go on.”
TJ was looking pensive. “Hang on,” he said, “I have an idea. Is there a schedule for the models anywhere handy?”
“Sure,” said Chris, “It’s posted on the bulletin board by the registration desk.” They went back to the outer office and consulted the class listing, which had suffered several revisions in the past week. In the models column they found Green scheduled to fill in for the missing Beecham in Breinin’s Wednesday evening class in Studio Nine.
“Man, that’s kinda creepy,” said Dan. “If he’s the one who did Benton in, he’ll be posing on the very spot.”
Once again Chris was circumspect. “Don’t jump to conclusions, buddy. We don’t know that he had anything to do with it, but I have a hunch our young sleuth here is planning to find out.” He cast a quizzical glance at TJ, who nodded and spoke in a low voice.
“I’m gonna come back here tonight and follow him home. If I can find out where he lives I can snoop around, maybe get something on him.”
“What’re you gonna do, just knock on his door and ask politely to look in his closet for a red jacket and a fedora? Maybe suggest he write out a confession?”
TJ didn’t appreciate Chris’s sarcasm, though he had to admit he couldn’t do anything without access to Wally’s place. But he had an ace up his sleeve that he wasn’t about to reveal.
“Stop kidding,” he told Chris. “I have a plan. I hope he’ll go straight home tonight, and if he does I’ll know the next step.”
“Okay, keep it to yourself,” said Dan, “but remember, if Wally is the killer he’ll be on his guard. You watch your step with him. He’s an ex-marine. Guys like him eat guys like you for breakfast, and there ain’t no leftovers.”
* * *
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