Blood Money (11 page)

“Sir, it’s a man.”

“A man?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a detective Ralph Kirby, and he says he has a package for you.”

“Did you check his ID?”

“Yes sir. It appears to be in order…and the package is addressed to you.”

“Tell him to leave it with you.”

“I suggested that, sir, but he said that he would like to deliver it personally…and ask you a few questions.”

“Damn cops! They’re all pushy. Tell him to leave his card and I’ll call him tomorrow.” He heard mumbling on the other end of the phone, muffled, barely audible, voices.

“Sir, he says it’s a package from someone at your office, addressed to you.”

There was a pause as Nick tried to sort out the what the doorman had told him.

“OK. Let him in.”

Kirby lightly tapped on the door of 3850 with the back of his hand. He ignored the brass lion’s head knocker on the door. The dimly lit hall was quiet, and he didn’t want to wake anyone. He stood for a few moments, waiting, remembering the halls of all the buildings he was used to waiting in. Some had been vermin infested with peeling paint and cracked plaster; some had been nice and clean. The nice, clean ones were pretty much the same no matter where you went, he thought. Like this hall. Although it was in a luxury building, it had ordinary looking vinyl-papered walls of a neutral color that wouldn’t show dirt, and low wattage bulbs in the wall sconces that didn’t use much electricity. The brightly lit lobbies, on the contrary, were like a woman’s face, he thought, a lure, a promise, but once you were inside…

Nick finally opened the door. He checked Kirby’s id without saying a word, and then stepped back to let him into the foyer. Kirby stepped past Nick and walked into the living room. He wasn’t shy about checking out the furnishings. He didn’t have a great house himself. Fishtown, where he lived, was a modest neighborhood. It was kept alive by a few diehards like himself. But, Kirby, despite
his origins, appreciated fine things. He had studied the homes of the wealthy, like the ones in Chestnut Hill and West Mount Airy on those rare occasions when he was assigned to a case where one aristocrat bumped off another. And he had promised himself a wonderful, oceanfront condo when he retired—with a few antiques sprinkled here and there. Maybe in Ocean City or Sea Isle City. He knew just how he would furnish it.

Kirby stepped back. He wasn’t embarrassed to stare at the twelve-foot ceilings twinkling with tiny spider lights suspended on thin wires. He walked to the undraped windows showcasing the city below, and the view he had always imagined—and it didn’t disappoint. He carefully walked over the intricately patterned reds, greens, and tans of the oriental carpets. His hand ran across the putty-colored leather sofas. And finally he went over to the crown jewels: Nick’s collection of Warhol serigraphs, Marilyn with pursed blue lips and Mick Jagger with his signature wide open mouth. Kirby cocked his head and then turned to the Campbell soup can.

“Impressive.” He nodded approvingly. He put on his glasses and looked at the signatures. “Originals, it looks like.”

“Thanks. Now what can I do for you?” Nick was losing patience. He was never comfortable around cops, even ones who admired his taste. And moreover, he never felt the need to be accommodating.

“I have a package for you.”

“From who?”

“Whom,” Kirby corrected without making eye contact. He knew that Nick was a cocky young punk with a law degree. He had heard of him and was not the least bit impressed with him. Just with his apartment. He opened his twelve-year-old brown twill coat, the only coat he owned. It was frayed on the right cuff and had a sheen from too many pressings, but it was warm and serviceable and had ample pockets.

“OK.
Whom
?” Nick hated smart-ass cops, and this one in particular.

“From Celia Lopez.” Kirby pulled the envelope containing the tape from his inside pocket.

“What?” Nick answered, stunned at hearing her name. He instinctively reached out for the package.

Kirby held it close. “Before I give it to you, will you answer a question for me—something which I don’t understand, that’s been bothering me?”

“Maybe. Ask me and I’ll let you know if I can—or if I will.” Nick reached for his drink on the glass coffee table.

‘Do you know why Celia Lopez would have this in her safedeposit box?” Kirby opened the envelope and showed Nick the tape, while keeping a firm grip on it.

“
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.” Nick read the title aloud, paused, and reflected for a few minutes. “Yeah, I know why,” he lied. “I collect old films, and I didn’t have this one. She told me that she would make a copy for herself and give me the original. We used to talk about old movies all the time.” He sipped the last of his single malt, put the glass back on the table, and held his hand out for the tape.

“But why wouldn’t she just give it to you? Why would she keep it in a safe-deposit box?” Kirby continued to hold the tape, ignoring Nick’s open hand.

“I don’t know. Celia was a little weird. She thought some things were important that weren’t. She’d make ten copies of ordinary correspondence, copy all the phone messages…she was paranoid… closed, if you know what I mean. She thought that since it was a first release…cassette…you know, original 1981…it had particular value. I told her it didn’t, tapes lost quality with age. She wouldn’t hear it. She said she’d will it to me when she died instead of giving it to me now. I don’t know,” he shook his head. “I guess she wanted to prove a point.”

“I thought it was a little weird, too, so I watched some of it—you know—ran it for a while—then fast-forwarded it.”

Nick’s expression suddenly changed. Kirby noticed his smile had disappeared and his body had tensed. Body language. You couldn’t hide it. It never failed, Kirby thought.

“And…?”

“And I found that it was just a
Raiders of the Lost Ark
tape. And you’re right—the quality is poor.” Kirby laughed. “Age has a way of knocking the hell out of things.” He patted his stomach hanging over his worn, brown leather belt and handed Nick the tape.

“Thanks…if that’s all, Detective Kirby…?” Nick moved toward the door hoping the old detective would take the hint.

But Kirby moved toward the coffee table and stopped to read the caption on the top of the pile of papers Nick had left on the glass top.

“Oh, Sean Riley. Are you trying that case?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I knew Captain Riley. He was a good man. Shame, to die so young. He had a lot of life left in him. I know Dr. Manin, too. Always helped our injured when he could. You know, gave to the police and firemen’s fund and all that…a true friend of the force.”

“Yes. Well, good night, Detective.” Nick opened the front door before Kirby had finished his sentence. He didn’t see Maria Elena in Kirby’s path, he was so intent on getting rid of him.

She smacked into Kirby in the doorway and practically ricocheted off his broad belly. Fortunately for her it was soft.

“Excuse me.” The detective was visibly shaken—until he saw what it was he had collided with. Then he was visibly impressed. He smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, pardon me. No. It’s all my fault. I was so clumsy. I should have looked where I was going,” she said coquettishly, tossing her dark hair back.

“Not as clumsy as I am. Sorry, miss.” Kirby gestured gallantly with a hand toward the entrance as he stepped back to let Maria through. “Detective Ralph Kirby at your service, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She stepped through the doorway past Kirby and then turned to him with an outstretched hand. “Maria Elena Maglio.”

“Relative of Joseph Maglio?” Kirby asked, shaking her hand warmly.

“Yes, his cousin.”

“Too bad. He was a great lawyer. A good man, too. I don’t care what they say about him.” Kirby paused, looking up. “What did Marc Antony say? ‘The good is oft interred with the bones?’ Not with me—I remember the good.” He laughed, shaking his head, tipped his hat, and started on his way.

“Thank you,” Maria said softly after him. “You are very kind.”

It was two twenty a.m. when Maria suddenly woke. She had been having a bad dream about being chased. She was running down a dark highway—car lights moving slowly behind her. They followed her, but they didn’t pass her. She looked back but couldn’t see the car or the driver, only an amorphous shape. She couldn’t run off the macadam. She tried, but something kept pulling her back onto the same strip of road. Then she saw an intersection. She thought to run to the left or right as soon as she reached it. But she never got any closer no matter how fast she ran. Suddenly she was there at the intersection. But it wasn’t a crossroad. It was a railroad track. Under it was water—dark, glistening syrup reflecting the lights of the car behind her. Suddenly a train appeared on the tracks, roaring toward her at top speed, its whistle blowing deafeningly, its headlights blinding her. She leaped into the darkness toward the water. And was falling, falling, falling. And then she awoke just before she hit the surface.

Maria was sweating. She knew she had been silently crying because her cheeks were wet, but she didn’t wake Nick, who lay sound asleep beside her. She decided to get up. She would not try to go back to sleep, not after a dream like that. Her mouth was dry. She quickly walked, naked, into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Pellegrino, and then walked into the living room and sat down on the leather sofa. She idly picked up the video cassette lying on the coffee table. She read the blurb on the box and decided she would watch it since she had never seen the film. Perhaps it would make her forget her dream. Besides, it sounded intriguing. Indiana Jones, assigned by the U.S. government to find the Ark of the Covenant before the dreaded Nazis did. How American. How like Nick, she thought. She had nothing better to do other than go back to that awful nightmare.

She put the tape in the VCR and hit play. The low, suspenseful theme music came up gradually as the camera panned the jungle covered mountains of Central America. She lowered the volume, not wanting to wake Nick, and settled into the sofa, pulling the tan silk throw from the back of the couch over her nakedness and propping two overstuffed pillows behind her. She took a sip of the sparkling water and fixed her eyes on the screen. She didn’t take them off for the next sixty-five minutes.

Suddenly the screen went blank and the sound went dead as the Nazis were tying Indiana Jones to a stake.

“
Merde! Que succedi?
” she muttered, annoyed at the interruption. Just as she was about to fast- forward with the remote, the screen lit again, but this time without the image of Harrison Ford. Instead, it was Joe Maglio. She stood, wrapping the throw tighter around her. She thought she must be dreaming again. Had she fallen asleep during the movie? No, she hadn’t. She took a long drink of water and started pacing as she watched and listened as Joe spoke.

By five a.m. she had replayed Joe Maglio’s portion at least four times, made fresh coffee, gotten a shower, and gotten dressed. Now it was time to wake Nick.

“Nick,” she shook him lightly. He was unresponsive. “Nick.” She shook him harder.

“What?” He yawned and tried to focus in the dark. “What time is it?” He rolled onto his back and gave her a distant stare.

“It’s five o’clock.”

“In the morning?” he asked, incredulous that she would be up so early. He looked at the blackness through his tall bedroom windows, which he never kept shaded. There was no need thirtyeight stories up.

“Get up now,” she said. “You must see something.”

“Maria, I’ll see it when I get up,” he said, pleading for two more hours’ rest.

“No,” she snapped. “Now!”

“What the hell is so important that I have to get up two hours ahead of the alarm? The answer is, nothing is that important.” Nick rolled over grabbing his pillow.

“This,” she said. She ran from the bedroom into the living room, cranked the volume on the VCR up to full, and hit play. Suddenly, Joe’s voice boomed through the built-in surroundsound speakers. Before she had a chance to turn around, Nick was standing beside her without a stitch of clothing.

“What the fuck?”

The air was biting cold as Nick crossed Sixteenth Street toward Liberty Place, a blue-gray forty-story steel tower that matched the sky. He dodged the heavy morning traffic, walking between stopped cars jammed together as they slowly made their way to the parking garage under the massive tower. A few impatient drivers sounded their horns as if the noise would unlock the congestion.

Nick’s heart pounded as he wheeled the heavy trial bags—two full leather cases, one on top of the other, through the mess. He saw his breath stream ahead of him as he pulled the bags up and over the curb in front of the entrance to the building. A strong sewer odor wafted past him. It was always there, at this exact point, in winter, spring, summer, and fall. It was the smell of the city. Something you had to forgive, or at least ignore if you were going to reap the city’s rewards, money being one of them.

It was nine a.m. Tuesday morning, and Nick was on his way to take the deposition of Dr. Victor Manin. He was ready. He had prepared his hit list and was ready to fire away, to ask the doctor pointed questions under oath. Both the questions and answers would be recorded and made into a permanent record by a court reporter.