Color Blind (22 page)
B
rown plunked an assortment of folders onto the conference table, waited until the others were seated. There were dark circles under his eyes. “We’ve just topped a hundred in the call-ins and drop-ins claiming to be our Bronx unsub. Unfortunately, none of them had the details right.” He sighed. “As for the recent vic, Landau, no fluid links yet. Lab’s trying to work up a DNA from the scraping samples.”
“If your lab doesn’t come up with something ASAP, I’m gonna push for Quantico to take over completely,” said Grange. He looked over at his agents, Marcusa and Sobieski, who were leaning against the back wall, quietly taking notes.
“Fine.” Brown was in no mood to buck up against the agent. He distributed papers around the conference table. “Medical examiner’s report on our dead artist, Leonardo Martini.” He waited until everyone was with himKate, Perlmutter, Grange. “Bruises on the neck indicate fingers digging into flesh like someone held Martini by the throat.”
“While they stuck the gun in his mouth?” said Perlmutter.
“Possible,” said Brown. “There was more bruising, bleeding under the skin, on Martini’s lower back, possibly a couple of kidney punches.” He flipped a page. “No record of Martini owning a gun, or at least he hadn’t registered the one found in his hand. ME is calling it suspicious.” Brown flipped another page. “Check out Toxicology, page three. Traces of Valium and chloral hydrate in Martini’s system. Not enough to cause bodily injury, but enough to sedate him. No pill vial was found in Martini’s medicine cabinet and no prescription on record at his local CVS. Add that to the two point one alcohol count in his bloodstream and it would have been difficult for the guy to fight anyone off.”
“So we know two things,” said Grange. “One, that Martini did the Midtown painting, and two, that he was probably murdered.”
“Maybe for doing that painting,” said Kate. “We’ve got a down-and-out artist, right? Someoneand I’m guessing, but let’s say shady Mr. Baldoni, his employer at the copy shopcomes to him with an innocent-enough request: paint a painting. Martini’s happy to do it. He needs the cash. But later, he finds out what the painting was used for and he’s no longer so happy.”
“And it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to find out,” said Perlmutter. “The painting was described in the newspapers.”
“Right,” said Kate, trying to catch Perlmutter’s eye. He hadn’t given her a direct look since they had been at Mark Landau’s East Village apartment. She turned back to Grange. “Okay, so now Martini thinks he can get even more money, so he tries blackmailing Baldoni, and whammo, that’s the end of him.”
“Your boys get a lead on Angelo Baldoni yet?” Brown asked Grange.
“Nada. Complete disappearing act. Copy shop’s closed down. Home address is sketchy. Guy moved around a lot. Naturally, did not pay his taxes like a good boy.” Grange turned to Kate. “Just out of curiosity. There any reason you can think of why a guy with mob connections, a suspected hit man, would want your husband dead? You see why I gotta ask.”
Grange’s words hit her like the flu, but Kate took a deep breath, straightened in her chair, and locked her gaze on Grange. “As you may or may not know, Mr. Grange…Excuse me,
Agent
Grange, Richard was a man of considerable influence, and therefore not without enemies. He also worked for the mayor’s officethe previous mayorpro bono, assisting in a variety of capacities, and often conferring with the DA’s office. I suspect there were plenty of disgruntled felons who would have been very happy to see him…” She swallowed. “Dead.” Kate’s heart was racing, but she kept her eyes glued to Grange. She was trying hard to believe her own words.
Grange’s tone was flat. “We should get a list together of possible felons who might be pissed off enough to kill your husband.” He turned to his agents, said, “Get on that.” Sobieski continued taking notes, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. Grange said to Brown, “Maybe it’s better if your squad concentrates on the Bronx psycho and we handle the Midtown case from here on in.”
Kate should have expected this, the Midtown case, Richard’s case, being taken away from them, the feds taking over. She just wished she hadn’t helped by giving them ammunition.
Brown looked at Kate, then Grange. “Can’t do that. Chief of Police Tapell wants us on itat least for now.”
For the life of him Grange could not understand why the NYPD chief wanted McKinnon on this case so badly, but he made a mental note to find out. “Okay,” he said. “But anything to do with Baldoni, you refer to me and my agents.”
Brown nodded, reached for another folder, slid out a series of black-and-white photos, and laid them onto the conference table. “Courtesy of Special Investigation and a telephoto lens. Looks like you were right, McKinnon, about having a tail put on Stokes.”
The photos, marked with the date and time, showed Stokes leaving his Midtown office building, hailing a cab, picking up a hooker in the Bronx, taking her to a transient hotel, and coming out a half hour later.
Perlmutter plucked the photo of Stokes going into the transient hotel off the table and squinted at it. “Street sign says Zerega Avenue.”
“Home to our first vic, Suzie White,” said Brown.
Kate’s mind was spinning.
Andy Stokes, Richard’s assistant, in the Bronx with a hooker? Was there a connection between the two cases?
She had another thought: If the two cases were connected, then Grange would not be able to keep her off Richard’s case. “We’ve got to show these pictures to Rosita Martinez. Maybe the landlady can ID Stokes as the guy who was seeing Suzie White on a regular basis.”
“And don’t forget Lamar Black,” said Perlmutter. “Let’s see if Stokes rings any bells with him.”
“Don’t much care for a pimp’s opinion,” said Grange.
“Fine,” said Brown. “You don’t have to talk to him.”
“What about Stokes?” asked Perlmutter.
“Sent uniforms the minute I saw these pictures. Not home. Not at the office. Secretary hasn’t seen him since yesterday, and his wife says he didn’t come home last night. Says she was about to report him missing.”
Kate’s thoughts continued to race:
Stokes and Suzie White? Angelo Baldoni? Were they connected?
“Anyone check out the hooker?” asked Perlmutter, tapping the surveillance photo.
“We’ll find her,” said Brown.
“I’m trying to remember if Andy Stokes has a country place, you know, a weekend house, somewhere he might hide out?” said Kate.
Brown checked some notes. “According to his wife, they sold their place in Bridgehampton six months ago. No replacement. Just the apartment on East Seventy-second.” Brown turned to Kate. “Maybe if you talked to her, woman-to-woman, wife-to-wife, sort of thing?”
He didn’t have to ask. Kate had decided that was her next move. She was already up, heading toward the door.
“Anything you get from the wife you report back to me,” said Brown. “You got that?”
“Sure,” said Kate. “But I wouldn’t count on a whole lot. I hardly know Noreen Stokes.”
G
range laid one of his beefy mitts on Brown’s arm.
“Hold on a sec.” He watched the door shut behind Kate, waited another minute for Perlmutter to leave.
“What?” said Brown. He did not like the look in the agent’s dark eyes.
Grange nodded at Marcusa and Sobieski, indicated the door, hesitated another moment until they were gone. “Something we gotta talk about.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not like I want to be a turd in the punch bowl, or anything, but…if Rothstein’s murder
was
a hit, you know the procedure. First place you look, the spouse.”
Laughter sputtered out of Floyd Brown’s mouth.
“McKinnon?”
He waved the comment off with a dismissive hand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Grange’s features hardened. “You think you know everything about that marriage? You know, say, if Rothstein was banging his secretary and McKinnon found out, or”
“I know McKinnon. And I knew her husband. You’re way off base.”
Grange sighed. “Look, there’s nothing I’d like better than for you to be right. All I’m suggesting is we check it outphone records, talk to a few friends”
“Forget it,” said Brown.
“Sorry. But it’s my job
not
to forget it. It’s my job, and
your
job, to check out everything.” Grange’s dark eyes looked like black marbles. “You know, I didn’t have to say anything to you. I don’t need your permission. I’m trying to work with you.”
Oh sure you are.
Brown took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You mind telling me why McKinnon would want to cut off her money supply?”
“How about life insurance? Rothstein had a five-mil policy.”
“I guarantee you Rothstein was worth more to McKinnon alive.”
“Maybe,” said Grange. “But there could be extenuating circumstances, like I saidanother woman, another man, maybe they hated each other, for all you know.”
“McKinnon is here helping us with the case, for Christ’s sake. You want to tell me why would she do that?”
Grange trained his marble eyes on Brown. “Could be perceived as the perfect cover.”
“I
asked
her to come on board.”
“The way I heard it, you asked her to consult on the Bronx case, and that was
before
her husband was killed.”
Brown sucked in air. “McKinnon was the first to point out that the painting found at her husband’s crime scene was different, that it was
not
the work of our unsub. Why would she do that when she had the perfect cover for her husband’s murder by simply leaving it alone? If McKinnon came on the case to keep an eye on things, or keep us off track, she could have lied, she could have said all three paintings were the work of the same painter and left it at that.”
“McKinnon’s a clever woman.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s clever is all.” Grange’s lips tightened. “It does not please me to have to do this, but everything and everyone has to be checked out.”
“When it makes sense.”
“I’m simply doing my job.” Grange tapped Baldoni’s file. “We have a suspect linked to organized crimea man the federal government believes may be responsible for at least a half dozen contract murders.”
“Mob murders,” said Brown. “Not wives and husbands hiring him to kill their spouses.”
“Well, we don’t really know why Richard Rothstein was murdered, do we?” Grange folded his thick hands calmly in front of him. “But I intend to find out.”
T
he Stokeses’ apartment had an uninspired decorator look, taupe ultrasuede on the couch and dining room chairs, a lighter version for the curtains, an almost identical shade picked up in the rugs, and a slightly paler taupe on the walls, which were dotted with pastel-colored landscape paintings, American impressionist, not first-rate, but Kate recognized a few of the second-tier names, and knew they had been far from cheap.
Andy and Noreen Stokes lived in one of those semi-fancy Upper East Side high-rise buildings between Madison and Park; like their art collection, it was not exactly A-one, but pricey. Kate took in the view from the fortieth floor, mostly buildings, a tiny swatch of Central Park, but plenty of sky, which came at a premium in Manhattan. She was a bit surprisedshe didn’t think Andy Stokes earned enough money to support the lifestyle.
On a smaller wall, dividing the living room from the dining, were a half dozen landscape and still-life paintings. Kate went over for a closer look. The drawing wasn’t very good, the color a bit garish.
“Andrew’s hobby,” said Noreen.
Kate looked again. The color was off, but not as extreme as the Bronx paintings. Still, they made her uncomfortable. “You have no idea where Andy might be?” she asked.
“No. I’ve called all of his friends. I really can’t imagine. I even tried the hospitals.” Noreen Stokes wore a floor-length pinkish-taupe robe that matched the room so well her head and hands seemed detached. She was a small, plain woman with fine brown hair and skin so translucent that the purplish network of veins at her temples and beneath her eyes showed through, giving her a fragile, almost breakable look. “I’m
terribly
worried,” she added, though there was little emotion in her voice.
If it were Richard who was missing, thought Kate, she’d be pacing and smoking, barely coherent. The thought stopped her cold: Richard
was
missing. She suddenly envied Noreen Stokes with an absent husband who could reappear. “Do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.
Noreen Stokes gestured toward the taupe couch. “Can I get you anything?”
“If it were later in the day I’d be begging for a tall Scotch, but no thanks.” Kate forced a laugh, which helped fortify the charade of well-being she was playing. “Forgive me for asking, but has Andy ever done something like this before? Disappear, I mean?”
Noreen Stokes looked at Kate, one of those purple veins throbbing beneath her eye, lips slightly parted, about to speak, but she stopped, folded herself into an armchair, and sat very still. “No,” she said. “Of course not.”
Kate studied the woman’s face, wondering how this rather plain, fragile woman had ended up with Andy Stokes, who, by superficial standards, must have been considered a catch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know Andy well. I’m afraid I had very little to do with Richard’s business. He didn’t like me interfering. Men and workboys with their toys, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right about that.” Noreen Stokes found a loose thread at the sleeve of her robe and wove it around one of her fingers.
“I mean, my God, trying to get anything out of Richard, well…”Kate felt the strain in her performance, but was trying to find a way, any way, to bond with the woman. “I can’t tell you how many times I’d awaken at three in the morning, discover he wasn’t home, frantically call his office, and he’d be like, ‘Oh, sorry, I guess I lost track of the time.’ ” Kate sighed deeply to mask the pain of talking about Richard. “Do they ever think of
us
?” she added.
“Andrew would often stay away…for days, but” Noreen Stokes stopped abruptly, catching herself, that loose thread now so tightly wrapped it was turning her index finger white.
“I thought you said he hadn’t disappeared before?”
“That’s not…what I meant. He stayed away, that is, he’d go off on a trip and…forget to call…like you said.” She appeared to be holding her breath.
“I see,” said Kate. “Did Andy say if he was happy working for Richard?”
“Why do you ask that?”
Kate sighed, suddenly exhausted, no longer able to play games. “Look, Noreen, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my husband. The same as you are.”
Noreen Stokes slowly began to unwind the thread from her tortured finger. “Andy hasn’t had a particularly easy time with his chosen profession. I often wonder if perhaps he’s gone into the wrong field entirely. I suppose he was happy enough at your husband’s firm. I know he certainly preferred it over that stuffy place, Smith, Henderson, and”
“Tighton?” Kate tried to remember what it was Richard had called the place.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Richard had a problem with that firm too, so I’m not surprised if Andy did.” Kate offered her a warm smile.
“Really? Well, Andy wasn’t there very long. I’m afraid that my husband has had a succession of jobs, butit’s old news, the jobs. This couldn’t possibly be of any help to you. Andrew said I shouldn’t say” Noreen stopped, slid her hands, which were shaking, underneath her thighs.
“Say
what
? Look, Noreen, anything you can tell me that might help find your husband could be helpful.” She locked eyes with the woman. “You do want to find him, don’t you?”
“What a thing to say.” Noreen sat up straighter, posture rigid as an Egyptian statue, the only part of her moving that purplish vein pulsating under her eye.
Kate waited, but clearly Noreen Stokes wasn’t talking. The air in the room thickened; the ticking of the antique clock on the wall grew louder; the smell of Noreen’s gardenia perfume was almost overwhelming. Kate suddenly wanted out. “Well, then. If there’s nothing else you can tell me, I should be going.”
“Yes,” said Noreen Stokes, sitting perfectly still. “You should.”
O
utside, the temperature had turned colder, letting New Yorkers know what winter had in store for them.
Kate leaned against a mailbox, taking deep breaths of the cool, damp air. Playing the role, talking about Richard, had taken a toll. She pulled out a Marlboro.
Oh, Richard. Tell me what happened. Please.
Just across the street was a tiny bistro she and Richard had frequented and the sight of it made her heart ache.
A missing husband.
Noreen Stokes had no idea how lucky she was. Kate watched the wind tear her cigarette smoke into small gray rags, and tried to concentrate on what had just transpired, if she had learned anything. One thing for sure: Noreen Stokes was lying. The woman knew where her husband was, Kate was certain of it. Would it make sense to take her down to the station, try to intimidate her into giving him up? Kate had the urge to race right back up to the fortieth floor and drag Noreen outbut she knew that wouldn’t work. A decade as a cop had taught her to read people as well as any therapist, and the way she was reading Noreen Stokes was that this was a woman who was going to continue to lie for her husband.
Kate pictured Noreen Stokes winding that thread around her finger, and replayed the conversation.
Andrew would often stay away for days…Perhaps gone into the wrong field…He didn’t stay very long at his last job…
His last job.
T
he small bronze plaque beside the door was discreet, not much larger than a man’s ID bracelet: Smith, Henderson, Jenkins & Tighton.
The reception area looked like an Old World men’s club, all dark wood and leather with a hint of expensive tobacco in the air, which Kate assumed had been pumped into the room, or perhaps simply oozed out of the pores of the aging Yalies who worked here.
“Mr. Smith’s secretary will be out to fetch you in a moment.” The receptionist’s accent was pure Katharine Hepburn. “Do have a seat.”
Kate melted into one of the plush leather couches. She was exhausted. If she shut her eyes she thought she could be asleep in a minute. She forced herself to peruse the newspapers and magazines arranged on a low oak table
Forbes, Business Week, American Law Journal
and was just reaching for
The Wall Street Journal,
anything to keep awake, when Mr. Smith’s secretary, another Brit, or trying to be, this one in her sixties with starched gray hair and a matching suit buttoned to her throat, fetched her. Kate followed the suit through a succession of hallways painted a cool pewter, decorated with hunting scenes and antique political cartoons. Now Kate remembered how Richard had always referred to one of the oldest, most distinguished firms in the citySmith, Henderson, Jenkins and
Tight Ass
.
Chase Smith, closing in on seventy, tall, distinguished, gray, obviously hand-tailored shirt showing off the fact that he was fit, gave Kate a handshake that left her fingers tingling.
“Terribly sorry about your husband,” he said, chin jutting, teeth clenched in perfect Locust Valley lockjaw. “He was a credit to the bar.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Kate couldn’t tell if there was any irony in the man’s statement, but probably notshe didn’t know many WASPs who
did
irony.
“You mentioned over the phone that you wanted to speak about Andrew Stokes,” he said, getting right to the point. “And I just spoke with Chief Brown, as you suggested.” Smith indicated a small leather love seat behind Kate, waited until she was seated, then folded himself into the matching leather chair behind his desk.
“Can you tell me why Andrew Stokes left your firm?” asked Kate, equally to the point.
“We were forced to let him go. Stokes became, shall we say, a tad too chummy with one of his clients.”
“An affair?”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant.” Smith stroked his tightly set jaw as if it ached. “Our firm was court-appointed to defend a Mr. Giulio Lombardi. Not exactly our kind of client.”
Kate nodded.
Giulio Lombardi. Angelo Baldoni’s uncle.
“I know the name.”
“Yes, in his own way, Mr. Lombardi is famous, or should I say
infamous
.” Smith ran his hands up and down his suspenders. “I’m certain you know how it is with court appointments, not much one can do about them, though naturally none of us wanted to touch the case. I must admit that we may have foisted the case off on Stokes because he was relatively new here, and because, well, truthfully, he hadn’t shown much talent. But he surprised us. He actually did quite well. He got Lombardi off. We were all rather amazed, thought perhaps we had underrated Stokes. But getting a client off is one thing, fraternizing is quite another.”
“Fraternizing?”
Smith’s tight jaw twitched. “It appeared that Stokes had struck up a friendship with Lombardi. One of our associates saw the two of them in a Midtown bar on more than one occasion, drinking and laughing. Most inappropriate. And this was weeks after the case. At first, we let it go, hoping it was a celebration for winning the case, but I have to confess I asked the associate to keep an eye on Stokes. One can’t be too careful, you understand.”
“Absolutely. I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Kate, who had developed a severe case of lockjaw herself.
Smith smiled, teeth clenched. “Well, the associate reported back that Stokes and Lombardi continued to meet, often in the company of”he cleared his throat“a certain kind of woman, if you know what I mean.” His eyes slid off Kate’s and looked away. “The point is, our firm was appointed to represent the one case only, and that should have been that. We certainly did not want Lombardi as a client.”
“And you made your position clear?”
“I certainly did, though Stokes actually had the gall to argue with me. Can you believe it? He felt that Lombardi would be a profitable client, said that he was courting the man. Naturally, I explained this was not something we desired, and I assumed Stokes understood me. But I was mistaken. This friendship apparently continued.” He sniffed. “I’m certain you can appreciate that we could not allow this to go on. We have a reputation here.” He sat up tall and proud, and Kate waited for the Yale cheer.
“Indeed you do.”
“I’m afraid we had no choice but to let Stokes go. A law firm, particularly one with a clientele like ours, cannot be too careful. For one of our attorneys to be fraternizing with such a person was simply out of the question.”
“How did Stokes take the dismissal?”
“Well, what could he do?” Smith seemed to consider something for a moment, then whispered, “There was something else that came out about Stokes, and”
“Yes?”
“Well, it turned out that we were not the only ones checking up on him.” Smith spread his hands onto his desk and leaned forward. “There was a detective, a private eye, if you will, on his tail as well. A man named, um…” Smith closed his eyes a moment. “Baume.”
“Like the watch?”
“Yes.”
Kate glanced at the sleek stainless-steel number on her wrist, a Baume et Mercier
Linea
. Richard had presented her with the exclusive Geneva company’s
Gala
on her last birthdaya white-gold-and-diamonds number, which she knew cost a small fortune. She’d exchanged it for the more modest
Linea
at a fifth of the price and had Richard donate the remainder of the money to Let There Be a Future, where it could actually do something other than spell out the time in diamondsan embarrassment no matter how you looked at it. Kate rested her hand on Smith’s for a brief moment and looked into his pale blue eyes. “Do you happen to know who hired the private investigator, Mr. Smith?”
“Oh, yes,” said Smith. “It was the wife. Andrew Stokes’s wife.”
L
amar Black had no intention of getting involved, that much was for sure.
First off, the guy was a fucking loser. Second, Lamar worried about those supposed wise-guy connections. Look what happened to Suzie, his sweet-as-sugar-honey-bun Suzie. Lamar felt a wave of sadness, but it was soon replaced by hunger. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast and was anxious to sink his teeth into a couple of Sausage and Egg McMuffins, which he would, right after he got to the ATM machine.
