Artist's Proof (11 page)

“Here?” he said again, and looked confused; I had forgotten that nothing was ever new at Muccio's. “I miss you, Sid-ney. The guys miss you. I think even the button men miss you.”

He was pouring me a red wine, my usual drink here. I said, “No, Enzo, I'm on Scotch.”

He gave me a look that said, Aren't we fancy tonight: expecting a lady, drinking Scotch. He poured the wine back in the jug and reached for the well scotch. I wasn't so fancy that he would offer me a premium brand.

I looked at my watch: five to eight. Olivia Cooper had agreed to meet me here at eight.

After Roy Chalmers's unflattering capsule description of her I had expected to be given a hard time when I phoned, but she had been receptive, even cordial. Cassie Brennan's murder had made the six o'clock newscasts, she told me, and although she knew the girl mostly from having seen her at work at the Sharanov house, she was, of course, shocked by the news.

When I started to explain who I was, she interrupted to say, “Of course. I know who you are. I've passed your house.” She paused, and I sensed she was stifling a giggle. “It's right out of a kindergarten crayon drawing. You do know how to express yourself.”

“Thank you.”

She lived on Gramercy Park, not that far uptown, and yes, she was agreeable to meeting me for a drink—just for a drink, she made clear—to talk about the murder. I suspected she was at least as interested in taking a look at the painter who lived in the weird house east of Sharanov's. I had to repeat Muccio's address twice; I think if I had given it to her before she agreed to come, she might have turned me down.

She showed at eight straight up. Mona's mighty organ had just finished returning us to Sorrento when Enzo said, “That's got to be your lady.”

I gave her a gold star for punctuality, turned on my bar stool, and gave her another for looks. I had been half prepared for the femme fatale Roy Chalmers had described; what I got in the doorway was a trim, vital woman in her thirties with an easy smile and dirty blonde hair worn what the hell. I went to meet her, and while I introduced myself she sized me up and seemed reasonably satisfied.

As an icebreaker, I suppose, she began describing the difficulty her Pakistani cabdriver had finding this place; meanwhile she was drifting toward the table area. I took her arm and steered her, with apologies, to the bar, where the four or five other patrons were seated.

She looked around as she climbed onto a stool. “Doesn't anyone sit at the tables?” she asked.

“Not since they peeled the bodies off them in 1957.”

Her lips formed a respectful “Oh.” She didn't have a follow-up question, and I asked her what she would like to drink. Enzo was standing by attentively.

“A gin martini?” she said doubtfully. “Straight up?”

I said, “Enzo, this is Ms. Cooper.” As they shook hands, I continued, “Enzo can tell the red wine from the white and he can read the labels on whisky bottles. Mixed drinks…”

Enzo chuckled and produced a dusty pitcher. “For a friend of Sid-ney, why not?” He set to work and we averted our eyes.

I said, “I'm sorry to drag you down to this joint. I'm joining some friends for dinner.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Here?” she said.

“It's a manhood test. You've seen Indians walk on hot coals?”

“Okay.” She was satisfied.

I had been studying her. She was even better-looking than I first thought. She had a glow. And high cheekbones, a straight-ahead nose, well-shaped lips. Sharanov had taste. “So, are you still seeing Misha?” I asked.

“If I was seeing Misha, would I be free on a Friday night on thirty minutes' notice to have a drink with a stranger?”

“You might be, if he was under arrest.”

That brought her erect on her bar stool. “Is he?”

“I have no idea. I wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

She leaned toward me and bit down on the words. “Does this satisfy you? I am not ‘seeing' Misha, I never ‘saw' Misha. Misha is a married man.”

“Technically.”

“I'm a stickler for technicalities. Where did you get that story?”

“His brother-in-law.”

“Roy Chalmers.” She nodded her full understanding and relaxed. “The original lounge lizard. No visible means of support, except what he earns as his sister's cheering section. And Kitty was never my fan.”

Enzo deposited the martini in front of Cooper. “Enjoy,” he said with a flourish. The drink was in a heavy-duty wineglass, and it was flush with the rim.

“That's a healthy martini,” I said.

“You know my customers,” Enzo said. “Fill the glass halfway and they bitch.”

“That's with
wine.
”

He shrugged and Cooper said, “Enzo, could I trouble you for a twist?”

“I'll try the kitchen,” he said. “They'll have lemon for the veal piccata.”

I shook my head. “Not unless you plan to peel the ReaLemon bottle.”

“Never mind,” Cooper said. “Not important.” She lifted her glass in a graceful arc and didn't spill a drop. “Cheers,” she said.

Enzo beamed as she brought the glass to her lips. He waited for a verdict. And waited.

“Mmm,” Cooper said.

Enzo nodded his appreciation of what he decided was a compliment, and moved down the bar to serve another customer.

“How long has this place been here?” Cooper whispered.

“Seventy-five years,” I said.

“That explains the vermouth,” she mused. “It was the best they could get during prohibition.” She raised her glass again. “Here's looking at you.” She took another sip.

“How come Kitty Sharanov doesn't like you?” I asked. “What's not to like?”

She put the glass down and turned it with long tapered fingers while she composed her answer. Finally she said, “Do you know Misha?”

“We met for three minutes.”

“Think of a sleeping tiger. Power at rest. Scarier than the out-front kind because you never know how much is there waiting to be unleashed.”

“That's close to my impression.”

“Then you know a lot about Misha. People say he may be a gangster. Whether it's true or not, the rumor alone makes him appear dangerous. That's catnip to many women. Very sexy. There are usually women around the Sharanov place, around Misha. Much better-looking women than me.”

“That's hard to believe.”

“I wasn't angling for a compliment, I'm simply telling you the way it is. Some real stunners. So why does Kitty single me out as a threat? I'm the one who's not interested in Misha. He takes that as a challenge, and he hits on me. Kitty thinks I'm playing a game to snare her husband, and that makes her mad. If it was true I wouldn't blame her.”

“So how come Misha's charm escapes you?”

“Because I've been down that road. I had a man like that in my life. Not a gangster, but macho, controlling.”

“What happened to him?

“I divorced him. One is enough.”

“You're not interested in Sharanov, but you do hang around the Sharanov house.”

“I sure do. It's
entertainment.
I've got this little place in Southampton, and I go out most Fridays after a bitch of a work week. During the day I play tennis, and in the evening I wind up at Sharanov's a lot. I find what goes on there more interesting than the scene at this week's cutting-edge East Hampton restaurant.”

“Like what?”

“Like the furtive comings and goings of broken-nosed hunks Misha growls at in Russian; I always imagine he's sending them out to break the noses of other people. Whatever he tells them, they jump—in front of a train, I bet, if he told them to do that. There are memorable house guests. The last few weeks the best guest bedrooms have gone to a loudmouthed Texas software tycoon and his pushy daughter. Daddy, poor sap, thinks he's going to hornswoggle, if that's the word, Misha in some scam or other. He thinks he's dealing with a Slav off the steppes and still not totally defrosted. Misha will not only pick him clean; he's already, I wouldn't be surprised, had his way with the daughter.”

Could anyone ever really have “his way” with Tess Turkinton? Any “way” was likely to be hers. But I could see where observing Sharanov at work and play might hold the same fascination as watching a pit of rattlesnakes.

I said, “What about Cassie Brennan? Was she much of a presence in that house?”

“Not really. Misha would have her in when there was a big crowd on a Saturday night. She'd fetch, clean up, whatever. She seemed eager to please. A really pretty kid, full of life. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.”

She knew I was waiting for more. After a moment she said, “Maybe he had an itch for her, but I never got a hint it went the other way. Is that what you're looking for?” She gave me a hard, clear-eyed look. “What exactly
is
your interest in Cassie's death?”

“She was a friend. I'd like to see her killer nailed. Maybe I can help with that. I used to work homicide for a living.”

“You were a cop!” she exclaimed. “That's what this place is—a cop's hangout. I should have guessed.” She seemed pleased at having solved the puzzle of why we were at Muccio's.

“About Cassie,” she continued quietly. She was looking at me with new interest: What kind of friend was I to Cassie? “I don't see what more I can contribute. We never got personal. She did clean my place once last fall. She was good, too, but she didn't have that much to say.” Her eyes slid off me for a moment, then back. I didn't like that.

I said, “That doesn't sound like the Cassie I knew. She was a nonstop talker.”

Again she didn't meet my gaze. “If I had to guess I'd say she was more open with men.”

I said, “You may still be able to help.” Here it came again: I was beginning to obsess about that damn bed.

“Yes?” Now I had her full attention. Good-looking woman; I almost forgot my point.

But I hung in and made my pitch. “Somebody made the king-size bed in Sharanov's bedroom when he left the beach last weekend. It wasn't Kitty—she hasn't been there in weeks—and I'll bet my house it wasn't Tess Turkinton—”

“You've met her?”

“Long enough to know she wouldn't make anybody's bed except under a court order. Do you have any ideas?”

“The Turkintons were Misha's only house guests last weekend. If you were wondering if it could have been Cassie, I don't see why. And I certainly don't see how. Misha heads back to the city on Sunday morning. I know this much about Cassie—she goes to church with her mother Sunday morning. Anyway, why does it matter?”

“I'm not sure it does. But that made bed—complete down to the spread, the throw pillows, the works—is the only thing about the murder scene that doesn't belong. It's a What's Wrong with This Picture, and it bothers me.”

She was studying me frankly. “Because you
are
afraid Cassie might have been in that bed.”

“I don't know.”

I wasn't about to protest that I had no sexual interest in Cassie. It would sound self-serving, and anyway, it was a no-win position; the denial itself would be a sign of interest. So I changed the subject.

“You agreed to meet me for a drink only. Can I expand the invitation? Will you stay for dinner?”

She was not in the least surprised. “Now that you've checked me out?”

“Not really,” I lied. “I'd have asked you on the phone, but I was afraid of scaring you off.”

She looked amused as she weighed the offer. “Dinner with a bunch of cops? Sounds safe.”

“The company will be safer than the veal. So that's a yes?”

She looked even more amused. “Only because I can't trust myself to navigate alone after this ocean of martini.”

Mona had just plunged into a spirited “Funiculi Funicula.” What timing.

T
EN

I
F THIS BUNCH
of mostly bruisers had shown up on your street you might have called the cops, but
they're
the cops. Red Buchanan sported an ear that had been redesigned in the Golden Gloves. Tom Ohlmayer wore a scar from his jaw to his collarbone, souvenir of a bomb squad screwup. Tony Kump had two joints of a finger missing; somebody had tried to keep him out of an apartment, never mind the search warrant. There were a few size-eighteen collars, although there wasn't much collar-wearing in this crowd. Some of these guys wore a suit only as a disguise, and to weddings. And not all weddings.

The cast at the Friday night cops' gathering in the noisy backroom at Muccio's had evolved over the years and it changed from week to week, depending on the demands of duty rosters and wives. I recognized only seven or eight of the dozen or so guys at the long table, which could be expanded as needed by joining more tables at either end.

Rocky Peretti and a couple of others were from the original group I knew as far back as the Police Academy; Steve Stavrianos had been my partner for three years, and so on. They were mostly detective firsts who had earned their gold shields the quick but dangerous route—undercover in narcotics. They had not been totally at ease with me when I first made lieutenant, but we soon went back to the old gang feeling, at least here at Muccio's. I was reminded of that now.

“Yo, Picasso, over here!”

“Beach bum, where's your tan?”

“Look who showed—it's the poster boy for the shuffleboard league.”

And more of the same. When they simmered down I introduced Cooper. A woman did occasionally show at these gatherings—even an occasional policewoman—but women were not encouraged. I could see right off that there would be no problem tonight. The guys had registered their unspoken approval.

Stavrianos said, “Miss, if you've got your eye on this one, forget it. He's got a very small p-p-p”—he pretended to struggle with the word while the others held their breath—“
pension,
and he paints with his feet.”