Artist's Proof (19 page)

“Did it?” He was unmoved.

“You must know that would be foolish.”

“Because you are a New York City policeman? But retired.” He had his ducks in a row. “And under investigation for having beaten a prisoner.”

My eyebrows may have lifted because he took the trouble to explain. “How do I know? Your victim's lawyer found me. To ask if I believed it was you who murdered my cleaning person. Since you have a history of sudden explosions of violence.”

“And what did you tell him?”

Again he tapped the gas pedal. “I said I would have to get back to him on that.”

“He knew where to come,” I said, “for an expert opinion on explosive violence.”

Sharanov acknowledged the validity of my point with a tight smile and a jab of the cigar:
touché.
“Ancient history,” he said.

“That's comforting to hear.”

His eyes shifted purposefully to the other room. “I'm speaking for myself,” he said. “I can't answer for the actions of anyone else.”

“So you
are
threatening me, you son of a bitch.”

He erupted in a short staccato laugh and his slate eyes returned to me; there was no laughter in them. He said, “My apologies. That came out of an old habit. I haven't threatened anyone in years. All I ask of you is that you set the record straight when Docherty gets back to you. Which he most certainly will. And very soon, I predict.”

“Are you going to tell me why?”

“He has to be interested in your involvement with Cassie Brennan. Don't you agree?”

“What involvement?” I hated the taste of the word. “There was none.”

“No? Then why did she push me—push me hard—to buy that drawing of yours from the firemen's auction?”

Cassie had promoted me to Sharanov in all innocence, and now he was turning it into something dirty. But at the same time he was giving away something about himself.

I said, “Do you usually take artistic advice from teenage girls who clean your house?”

A mask dropped over his face. “Sometimes. Why not?”

But I had pressed the right button. The Turkintons believed the way to please Sharanov, the way to his pocketbook, was with a painting of Cassie Brennan; they were prepared to bet a bundle that he was hung up on Cassie. Kitty believed as much, Paulie Malatesta smelled it, and Olivia Cooper would not have been surprised. All that was new to me now was how much the aging thug had been like an eager puppy with the teenager. He must have been far gone to buy my drawing for no better reason than that Cassie wanted him to buy it. He wouldn't have told Docherty that he had a drawing of mine; her certainly wouldn't have said why he had it.

So Misha and I broke even on the question of “involvement” with Cassie. He couldn't hold that club over me without calling attention to himself. And I could see that he understood that.

So he reached back again into his enforcer past and tried to play from that strength. “You will think about what I asked you?” He was purring again. “To remember correctly how that drawing with the open window came to be? To set the record straight? I would hate there to be a misunderstanding between us.”

The man had tunnel vision. “I'll think about it,” I said. “Absolutely.” Screw him; but not while I was still his “guest.”

“Good. Done. My people will drive you home.”

And the hell with that. “Thanks anyway, I'm not going home.”

*   *   *

I
WALKED TO
Pulver's, about half a mile. The night air was still mild and people were out; they were leaving restaurants or strolling on Covenant Street, but I still glanced back a couple of times to see if I had company.

And at Pulver's instead of the beers I had planned on I knocked back a few scotches and unwound by listening to the soothing sounds of the locals arguing zoning code changes.

I phoned for the village taxi. It was not as roomy as Nikki's Volvo, but it was worth every penny of the ten bucks it cost me to get home.

I thought I would put in a couple of hours on
Large.
But first I spent ten minutes rooting around for the ammo for the Smith & Wesson. I never found it. By then I was too disgusted to paint and I went to bed.

S
EVENTEEN

O
N WEDNESDAY MORNING
I was forced to lay down a brush heavy with paint and climb down off the scaffold. Someone had been pounding on my front door and wouldn't take no response as an answer.

For my trouble a bowlegged marshall with bad breath favored me with a subpoena to appear the following Monday at 11
A.M
. before the grand jury at the county courthouse forty minutes to the west. Docherty was casting his net.

I had put off hiring a lawyer, and I was going to have to do something about that; but not until I absolutely had to.

Inspired by my cash flow drought, what I was going to do was clean my brushes, close my paints, and take a stab at what I had done for a living all those years: investigate a murder. My money problem aside, didn't I at the very least owe Cassie Brennan, friend and loyal booster, a serious try at bringing her killer to justice? Especially since neither John Docherty nor Chuck Scully had moved a millimeter closer to doing that.

I eased into my sleuth mode slowly. I began with a variation on a ritual that had worked for me in the past when I wasn't making headway on a case. I used to park my car on a side street, tilt back the seat, and free-associate everything I knew about the case while I stared at the ceiling light. What I did now was kick off my shoes, lay back on my bed, and let myself be hypnotized by that giant hand I had repaired on
Large.

People, facts, and events formed three-dimensional pictures in my head. They knocked against each other and spun away like fun park bumper cars. In the past when I did this two cars would sometimes lock.

After I'm not sure how long, a couple did now. Anyway they clung for a moment. Long enough to get me started.

*   *   *

T
HE HUGGINS SERVICE
Station was at the west edge of the village, along the highway, a last chance for residents heading for the city to keep their gas money local. I steered clear of the pumps and parked at the side of the garage. A mechanic was at work in each of the three bays.

Paulie Malatesta was just emerging from the open jaws of a Jeep in the middle bay, his jet black hair tumbling onto his generous brow. I could see why Cassie might have gone for him; he had the dark, brooding looks of a Heathcliff, if not the style.

I called his name, and his face lit up when he saw me. He wiped his greasy hands on a paper towel with only moderate success and hurried to meet me.

“Hey, Lieutenant, what's up?”

“Can we talk?”

This was not what he wanted to hear; he was expecting news of an arrest. He took a moment to consider, then turned to the adjoining bay. “Yo, Ike, I'm taking my break.”

I led him toward my pickup. I said, “I suppose the police have been to see you.”

“Yeah, Chuck Scully showed up to bawl me out for hassling that fat cop the day Cassie was killed. Walter. Then he grilled me on what I knew about, you know, the situation. I didn't know a damn thing except that Sharanov had the hots for Cassie.”

“Is that a guess or did she tell you something?”

“She didn't have to. I'd see him sometimes when I came to pick her up. It was all over his face.”

“That's it?”

“He gave her presents. A sweater, a box—must have been a good five pounds—of candy. Other stuff. What the hell else was all that about?”

We were climbing into my pickup. “Was Cassie bothered by the attention?”

“No. And that ticked me off even more. She said he didn't mean anything by it, it was just kind of a father thing. Yeah, like ugh.”

It was hard to believe that Paulie was well into his twenties. His emotions were writ as plainly on that handsome face as they must have been when he was fourteen. I said, “Paulie, were you and Cassie lovers?”

He reared like a spooked horse. “Were you?”

“Absolutely not.” As I said it, my heart tapped lightly against my chest. Once.

“I know that,” he said disdainfully. “And neither was I. So where'd you get the idea?”

“It seemed logical. Almost inevitable.” Like water running downhill. He was more than likely lying to protect her good name.

Stubbornly he said, “She was my girl, that's all. Beautiful, inside and out. Every day she's gone I miss her more. But if you mean were we doing it, no way.” He seemed to be challenging me to prove him a liar.

“Because she was too young?”

“Hell, no. I've been with girls younger than sixteen. Anyway, Cassie was no special age, you know what I mean?”

“So, what then?”

“She promised her mother, can you believe it? Swore to her. And swore if she was ever thinking of changing her mind she'd come and speak to her first.”

“That's a hard promise to keep.” Water saying, I promise not to run downhill. “Very hard.”

He said, “Not when you've got a mother like Cassie's putting the fear of God in you. The woman's something.”

“Is that why I didn't see you at the wake? Mrs. Brennan doesn't approve of you?”

“Approve of me? I've been in this town almost a year. Mrs. Brennan doesn't even know I'm alive. I was never allowed to meet the lady. Can you figure that?”

“So you and Cassie had a secret romance. How did you manage it?”

Tight-lipped, he said, “We managed.” But he knew that wouldn't satisfy me. “Sometimes she'd come over to my place. I have a room in a house owned by this old couple? They wouldn't let Cassie go upstairs, but we'd hang out in the parlor.”

“Where did Mrs. Brennan think she was those times?”

“Working. Cassie had a lot of part-time jobs. Even if she didn't trust her daughter—and Cassie said she did—there was no way the old lady could keep tabs on her. Mrs. Brennan puts in a long day, but Cassie's were longer. She was out of the house before her mother woke up. Anyways, four days a week.”

“Doing what?”

“The breakfast shift at Mel's—six to ten
A.M
. Monday through Thursday. That's where we met. Sundays her mother got her up for early mass. Fridays and Saturdays were the only days she got to sleep in a couple of extra hours.”

It was beginning to dawn on Paulie that he was doing most of the talking, and that any information that passed between us had been from him to me and was likely to continue that way. He glanced at his watch. “Why did you look me up? What did you want to see me about?”

It was a moment of truth. I spoke slowly. “The day Cassie was murdered, Paulie…”

He shifted uneasily. “Jeez, don't remind me of that day.”

“You showed up at the Sharanov house in a Huggins tow truck. The bad news had spread. It must have gone through the village in ten seconds flat and you had jumped in the truck and driven hell for leather to the Sharanov house. You were in pain, keyed up, emotional. Understandably. And you fought with the cop out front. Walter.”

“I didn't know what I was doing. I was out of my head. I already apologized for that.”

“I'm not laying blame on you, Paulie. I'm trying to explain where I'm coming from. After you took care of Walter, you went for me. Remember?”

“You were in my way. I'm sorry. I wanted to get in that house—to see Cassie one more time. And to beat the living shit out of Sharanov.”

“So you tried to shove me aside. You put your hands flat on my chest and you pushed.”

“Yeah. So…?” He didn't have the least idea where I was headed.

I said, “I don't get to the Laundromat that often. If a shirt's clean enough I'll wear it a couple or three times.”

He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Hey, I'm only allowed ten minutes on a break. Okay?”

“I'm almost finished. Couple of days ago I reached for the shirt I wore last Friday. To check it for a second wearing. You know what? No grease stains. Not a speck.”

As if by reflex, Paulie shoved his hands in his coverall pockets. And waited.

I said, “You had come directly from work. Paulie, there's no way you can work on cars and keep your hands clean. You hadn't been working that morning. What were you doing?”

He stared at me stupidly. If he had been prepared for the question he could have given any of a number of reasonable answers. But he didn't have one ready. His dark face flushed darker. Like a kid hauled into the principal's office, he sounded wounded and defensive.

“I was working. Check the time sheet. I don't know if my hands were dirty. Maybe they were, and your shirt was just plain lucky to stay clean.”

When he fell back on the time sheet for his alibi I figured he had been at Huggins's. But that didn't mean he was working. “Okay, Paulie, maybe you were
at
the job. But did you pick up a tool? Or were you too troubled, too bothered by something, to do any work?”

“You report in, Huggins gives you a car. That's how it's done here. Labor's billed by the half hour.”

“And you had a car that morning? I can check the billings.”

“Huggins's bills? Who says you can?”

“Okay, then Chuck Scully can.”

That gave him pause. “That morning?” He reached for the door handle. “I reported in, like I said. But I had a lousy stomach. Something I ate the night before was giving me the runs. I was mostly in the john. Huggins took the car from me, and I got half a day's pay. But I was here. Ask Huggins. Ask anyone. You satisfied?”

It was total bullshit. He couldn't even say it with real conviction. “Paulie, you sure as hell weren't sick when you showed up at the Sharanov house and took on everyone who stood in your way.”

“You forget about sick when your girl's been murdered.” The wounded voice rose an octave. “When she's raped and killed by some Brooklyn gangster. The only girl you ever loved. What's my hands being dirty got to do with that? How come that butcher is still walking around while Cassie's planted six feet under? Why don't you go after the killer, mister hotshot New York detective, instead of my dirty hands? Why don't you nail the bastard?”