“Then Mr. Lambston is free to go?”
O’Brien sighed. “Yes, he is.”
Seamus had been sure they would arrest him. Not daring to believe what he had heard, he leaned his palms on the table and dragged his body from the chair. He felt Robert Lane put his hand under his arm and guide him from the room. He heard Lane say, “I want a transcript of my client’s statement.”
“You’ll get it.” Detective Gomez waited until the door closed, then turned to his partner. “I’d love to have locked up that guy.”
O’Brien smiled, a thin, mirthless smile. “Patience. We have to wait for the lab reports. We need to check Lambston’s movements on Thursday and Friday. But if you want to bet on a sure thing, bet that we’ll have an indictment from the grand jury before Seamus Lambston gets to enjoy the end of his alimony payments.”
When Neeve, Myles and Jack got back to the apartment, there was a message on the answering machine. Would Myles please call Police Commissioner Schwartz at his office?
Herb Schwartz lived in Forest Hills, “where ninety percent of the PCs have traditionally dwelt,” Myles explained to Jack Campbell as he reached for the phone. “If Herb isn’t fussing around his house on Saturday evening, something big is happening.”
The conversation was brief. When Myles hung up he said, “It looks as though it’s all over. The minute they brought in the ex-husband and started questioning him, he cried like a baby and demanded a lawyer. It’s only a matter of time till they have enough to indict him.”
“What you’re saying is that he didn’t confess,” Neeve said. “Isn’t that right?” As she spoke, she began turning on table lamps until the room was bathed in a soft, warm glow. Light and warmth. Was that what the spirit yearned for after witnessing the harsh reality of death? She could not shake off the feeling of something ominous surrounding her. From the moment she had seen Ethel’s clothing laid out on that table, the word shroud had danced in her head. She realized now that she had immediately wondered what she would be wearing when she died. Intuition? Irish superstition? The feeling that someone was walking on her grave?
Jack Campbell was watching her. He knows, she thought. He senses that there’s more than just the clothes. Myles had pointed out that if the blouse Ethel usually wore with the suit was at the cleaners, she would automatically choose as a substitute the one that belonged with the ensemble.
All the answers Myles came up with made such sense. Myles. He was standing in front of her; his hands were on her shoulders. “Neeve, you haven’t heard a word I said. You asked me a question and I answered it. What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know.” Neeve tried to smile. “Look, it’s been a rotten afternoon. I think we should have a drink.”
Myles scrutinized her face. “I think we should have a stiff drink, and then Jack and I should take you out for dinner.” He looked up at Jack. “Of course, you may have plans.”
“No plans except, if I may, to fix us that drink.”
The scotch, like the tea at Kitty Conway’s, did the job of temporarily taking from Neeve the sense of being swept along by a dark current. Myles repeated what the Commissioner had told him: The homicide detectives felt that Seamus Lambston was on the verge of admitting guilt.
“Do they still want me to go through Ethel’s closet tomorrow?” Neeve wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be relieved of the task.
“Yes. I don’t think it’s going to matter one way or the other whether Ethel had planned to go away and packed for herself or if he killed her and then tried to make it look as though she was off on one of her trips, but we don’t leave loose ends.”
“But wouldn’t he have to keep sending the alimony indefinitely if people thought she was away? I remember Ethel told me once that if he was late with the check she’d have her accountant call and threaten suit. If Ethel’s body wasn’t discovered, they’d have been after him to keep paying for seven years before she’d be declared legally dead.”
Myles shrugged. “Neeve, the percentage of homicides that are the result of domestic violence is awesome. And don’t credit people with too many brains. They act impulsively. They go off the deep end. Then they try to cover their tracks. You’ve heard me say it over and over. ‘Every killer leaves his calling card.”
“If that’s true, Commish, I’d be interested to know what calling card Ethel’s murderer left.”
“I’ll tell you what I think the calling card is. That bruise on Ethel’s jaw. You didn’t see the autopsy report. I did. As a kid, Seamus Lambston was a darn good Golden Glover. The bruise almost broke Ethel’s jaw. With or without a confession, I’d have started looking for someone with a boxing background.”
“The Legend has spoken. And you’re dead wrong.”
Jack Campbell sat on the leather couch sipping Chivas Regal, and for the second time in one day decided to keep his own counsel as Neeve and her father argued. Listening to them was not unlike watching a game of tennis between two well-matched opponents. He almost smiled but, observing Neeve, felt another stab of worry. She was still very pale, and the coal-black hair that framed her face accentuated the milk-white luster of her skin. He had seen those wide sherry-colored eyes brighten with amusement, but tonight it occurred to him that there was a sadness in them that went beyond Ethel Lambston’s death. Whatever happened to Ethel isn’t finished, Jack thought, and it has to do with Neeve.
Impatiently he shook his head. His Scottish forebears with claims of their own to second sight were getting to him. He had asked to accompany Neeve and her father to the District Attorney’s office in Rockland County for the simple reason that he wanted to spend the day with Neeve. When he left her this morning, he’d gone to his place, showered, changed and headed for the Mid-Manhattan Library. There on microfilm he had read the seventeen-year-old newspapers with the screaming headlines POLICE COMMISSIONER’S WIFE MURDERED IN CENTRAL PARK. He’d absorbed every detail; studied the pictures of the funeral procession from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Neeve, ten years old, in a dark coat and bonnet-shaped hat, her small hand lost in Myles’s hand, her eyes shimmering with tears. Myles’s face carved in granite. The rows upon rows of policemen. They seemed to stretch the length of Fifth Avenue. The editorials that linked convicted mobster Nicky Sepetti to the execution of the Police Commissioner’s wife.
Nicky Sepetti had been buried this morning. That had to have yanked both Neeve and her father back to the full memory of Renata Kearny’s death. The microfilms of the old newspapers had been filled with speculation about whether Nicky Sepetti from his prison cell had also ordered Neeve’s death. This morning Neeve had told Jack that her father had been dreading Nicky’s release because he was worried about her, that she believed that Nicky Sepetti’s death had freed Myles from that obsessive fear.
Then why am I worried about you, Neeve? Jack wondered.
The answer came into his thoughts as simply as though he’d asked the question aloud. Because I love her. Because I’ve been looking for her since that first day when she ran away from me on the plane.
Jack realized that all their glasses were empty. He got up and reached for Neeve’s glass. “Tonight I don’t think you should fly on one wing.”
• • •
With the second cocktail they watched the evening news. Excerpts of Nicky Sepetti’s funeral came on, including his widow’s impassioned statement. “What do you think?” Neeve asked Myles quietly.
Myles snapped off the set. “What I think isn’t printable.”
They had dinner at Neary’s Pub on East Fifty-seventh Street. Jimmy Neary, a twinkly-eyed Irishman with a leprechaun’s smile, rushed to greet them. “Commissioner, it’s grand to see you.” They were ushered to one of the prize corner tables Jimmy reserved for his special guests. Jimmy was introduced to Jack and pointed out to him the pictures that framed the walls. “There’s himself.” Former Governor Carey’s picture was placed where it could not be missed. “Only the cream of New York up there,” Jimmy told Jack. “See
where the Commissioner is.” Myles’s picture was directly opposite Governor Carey’s.
It was a good evening. Neary’s was always the gathering place for politicians and the clergy. Repeatedly people stopped at the table to greet Myles. “It’s great to see you again, Commissioner. You’re looking fit.”
“He loves this,” Neeve murmured to Jack. “He hated being sick and just about dropped out of sight this last year. I think he’s ready to join the real world.”
Senator Moynihan came over. “Myles, I hope to God you’re taking over the Drug Enforcement Agency,” he said. “We need you. We’ve got to get rid of this drug scum, and you’re the man we want in charge.”
When the Senator left, Neeve raised her eyes. “You talked about ‘feelers.’ It’s gone this far!”
Myles was studying the menu. Margaret, his longtime favorite waitress, came over. “How’s the shrimp Creole, Margaret?”
“Brilliant.”
Myles sighed. “I knew it would be. In honor of my diet, bring me broiled flounder, please.”
They ordered, and as they sipped wine Myles said, “It means spending a lot of time in Washington. It means renting an apartment there. I don’t think I could have left you here alone, Neeve, if Nicky Sepetti was walking the streets. But now I do feel safe about you. The gang hated Nicky for ordering your mother’s death. We kept the heat on them until most of the old crowd was up there with him.”
“Then you don’t believe the deathbed statement?” Jack asked.
“It’s hard for those of us who were raised believing that deathbed repentance might slip you into heaven to witness a man going out with a false oath on his lips. But in Nicky’s case I’ll stand by my first reaction. That was a farewell gesture for his family, and obviously they fell for it. And now it’s been a grueling enough day. Let’s talk about something interesting. Jack, have you been in New York long enough to decide if the Mayor will win another election?”
As they were finishing coffee, Jimmy Neary stopped back at the table. “Commissioner, did you know that the Lambston woman’s body was found by one of my old customers, Kitty Conway? She used to come in here with her husband. She’s a grand lady.”
“We met her today,” Myles said.
“If you see her again, give her my best and tell her not to be such a stranger.”
“Maybe I’ll do better than that,” Myles said casually. “Maybe I’ll bring her in myself.”
Jack’s apartment was the first stop for the cab. As he said good night, Jack asked, “Look, I know this sounds pushy, but would there be any objection if I went along with you tomorrow to Ethel’s apartment?”
Myles raised his eyebrows. “Not if you promise to fade into the background and keep your mouth shut.”
“Myles!”
Jack grinned. “Your dad’s absolutely right, Neeve. I accept the conditions.”
• • •
When the cab pulled up to Schwab House, the doorman opened the door for Neeve. She stepped out as Myles waited for change from the driver. The doorman went back to stand at the entrance to the lobby. The night had become clear. The sky was filled with stars. Neeve walked away from the cab. She raised her head and looked up to admire the galaxy.
Across the street, Denny Adler was propped against an apartment house, a wine bottle by his side, his head sunk on his chest. Through narrowed eyes he observed Neeve step from the cab. He inhaled sharply. He had a clear shot at her and could be gone before anyone saw him. Denny reached into the pocket of the raggedy sweater-jacket he was wearing tonight.
Now.
His finger touched the trigger. He was about to pull the gun from his pocket when the door to his right opened. An elderly woman emerged from the building, holding a leash from which a small poodle strained forward. The poodle lunged toward Denny.
“Don’t be afraid of Honey Bee,” the woman said. “She’s a friendly darling.”
Outrage built like erupting lava within Denny as he watched Myles Kearny step from the cab and walk behind Neeve into Schwab House. His fingers went for the poodle’s throat, but in time he managed to control the gesture and let his hand drop onto the pavement.
“Honey Bee loves to be petted,” the elderly woman encouraged, “even by strangers.” She dropped a quarter onto Denny’s lap. “I hope this will help.”
10|
On Sunday morning, Detective O’Brien phoned and asked for Neeve.
“Why do you want her?” Myles asked sharply.
“We’d like to talk to the cleaning woman who was in the Lambston apartment last week, sir. Does your daughter have her number?”
“Oh.” Myles did not know why he experienced instant relief. “That’s easy. I’ll get it from Neeve.”
Five minutes later, Tse-Tse called. “Neeve, I’m a witness.” Tse-Tse sounded thrilled. “But could I have them meet me in your apartment at one-thirty? I’ve never been interviewed by the police before. I’d kind of like you and your dad to be around.” Her voice lowered. “Neeve, they don’t think I killed her, do they?”
Neeve smiled into the receiver. “Of course not, Tse-Tse. Sure. Dad and I are going to the twelve at St. Paul’s. One-thirty will be fine.”
“Should I tell them about the creepy nephew taking the money and putting it back and Ethel threatening to disinherit him?”
Neeve was shocked. “Tse-Tse, you said that Ethel was mad at him. You didn’t say she threatened to disinherit him. Of course you’ve got to tell them that.”
When she hung up the receiver, Myles was waiting, his eyebrows raised. “What was that all about?”
She told him. Myles emitted a soundless whistle.
When Tse-Tse arrived, her hair was in a prim bun. Her makeup was understated except for her false eyelashes. She was wearing a granny dress and flat shoes. “This is the costume I wore when I played the housekeeper on trial for poisoning her employer,” she confided.
Detectives O’Brien and Gomez were announced a few minutes later. When Myles greeted them, Neeve thought, You’d never guess he wasn’t still top man at One Police Plaza.
But when Tse-Tse was introduced, O’Brien looked bewildered. “Douglas Brown told us that the cleaning woman was Swedish.”
His eyes bulged as Tse-Tse earnestly explained how she used different personas depending upon her current off-off-Broadway roles. “I’ve been playing a Swedish maid,” she concluded, “and I sent a personal invitation to Joseph Papp to come to the show last night. It was closing night. My astrologer said that Saturn was on the cusp of Capricorn, so my career aspects were very strong. I really had a feeling he’d show.” She shook her head sadly. “He didn’t come. In fact, nobody came.”
Gomez coughed vigorously. O’Brien swallowed a smile. “I’m sorry about that. Now, Tse-Tse—if I may call you that?” He began to question her.
The questioning became a dialogue as Neeve explained why she had gone with Tse-Tse to Ethel’s apartment, why she had gone back to check the coats in the closet, to look over Ethel’s daily calendar. Tse-Tse told about Ethel’s angry phone call to her nephew a month ago, about the money that had been replaced last week.
At two-thirty O’Brien snapped his notebook closed. “You’ve both been very helpful. Tse-Tse, would you mind accompanying Miss Kearny to the Lambston apartment? You know the place well. I’d like to have your impressions of anything that might be missing. Come over in about an hour, if you will. I’d like to have another little chat with Douglas Brown.”
Myles had been sitting in his deep leather chair, his forehead furrowed. “So now a greedy nephew enters the picture,” he said.
Neeve smiled wryly. “What do you think his calling card would be, Commish?”
• • •
At three-thirty, Myles, Neeve, Jack Campbell and Tse-Tse entered Ethel’s apartment. Douglas Brown was sitting on the couch, his hands twisting in his lap. When he looked up, his expression was unfriendly. His sullenly handsome face was damp with perspiration. Detectives O’Brien and Gomez we
re sitting across from him, their notebooks open. The surfaces of the tables and the desk appeared sooty and unkempt.
Tse-Tse murmured to Neeve, “This place was spotless when I left it.”
Neeve whispered an explanation that the smear was caused by the homicide squad dusting for fingerprints, then said quietly to Douglas Brown, “I’m terribly sorry about your aunt. I liked her very much.”
“Then you were one of the few,” Brown snapped. He stood up. “Look, anyone who knew Ethel can swear to how irritating and demanding she could be. So she bought me a bunch of dinners. There were plenty of nights I gave up being with my friends because she wanted company. So she slipped me some of those hundred-dollar bills she kept around here. Then she’d forget where she hid the rest of them and say I took them. Then she’d find them and say she was sorry. And that’s the whole of it.” He stared at Tse-Tse. “What the hell are you doing in that getup, paying off a bet? If you want to make yourself useful, why don’t you get out the vacuum and clean up this place?”
“I worked for Miss Lambston,” Tse-Tse said with dignity, “and Miss Lambston is dead.” She looked at Detective O’Brien. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’d like Miss Kearny to itemize the clothing that is missing from the wardrobe, and I’d like you to generally look around and see if there’s anything missing that you notice.”
Myles murmured to Jack, “Why don’t you go in with Neeve? Maybe you can take notes for her.” He chose to sit in a straight chair near the desk. From there he could clearly see the wall that was Ethel’s photo gallery. After a moment he got up to study the pictures and was grudgingly surprised to see a montage showing Ethel at the last Republican convention on the dais with the President’s immediate family; Ethel giving the Mayor a hug at Gracie Mansion; Ethel receiving the annual award for the best magazine article from the American Society of Journalists and Authors. There had obviously been more to the woman than I realized, Myles thought. I dismissed her as a rattlebrain.
The book Ethel had proposed to write. There was plenty of mob money being laundered through the fashion industry. Had Ethel stumbled on that? Myles made up his mind to ask Herb Schwartz if there was any big undercover investigation going on that had to do with the rag trade.