Damaged Goods (40 page)

S
TANLEY MOODROW AWOKE TO
the faint odor of his lover on the sheets and pillowcase next to where he slept and the much stronger smell of brewing coffee drifting in from the kitchen. He rolled onto his back without opening his eyes, let the pure pleasure of having nothing to do run through his body. Lazy was the proper word for the way he felt, as limp and relaxed as Betty’s crumpled nightgown at the foot of the bed. For the moment, he wanted nothing more in life than to lie right where he was.

“Stanley, you awake?”

Moodrow reluctantly opened his eyes. “Yeah.” He stole a glance at the clock on the night table: 9:47. “It’s late,” he announced, pleased with himself. On most days, he was up before seven.

“How are you feeling?”

“Great.” He touched the back of his head, found the remains of the wound dry, pronounced himself healed. Sitting up, he reached out to Betty and gently pulled her down next to him. “I feel like I’m getting this behind me.”

Betty glanced at his lap. “Looks to me like you’re getting something in front of you as well.”

“Purely reflexive, my dear, by-product of a good dream and a desperate need to urinate.”

Twenty minutes later, shaved and showered, he sat at the kitchen table, a steaming coffee mug in his hand. The odor of toasting bagels filled the room.

“A good morning for smells,” he announced.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” He drained half the mug, then got up to stand behind Betty who continued to chop away at a bunch of scallions. “Whatta ya say we take the ferry to Ellis Island, hang out with the tourists?”

Ellis Island, processing center for tens of millions of immigrants, had been a museum for nearly a decade. Moodrow have been determined to pay a visit ever since reading an article in the
Daily News
bemoaning the fact that more Japanese toured the exhibits than native New Yorkers, that the ratio of all tourists to New Yorkers was fifty-to-one. This despite the fact that six million people in the Greater New York area had ancestors who’d come through Ellis Island.

“I’ve never been there,” Betty said. “My grandparents—my mother’s parents—landed on the Island in 1916.” She slid the chopped scallions into a small bowl with the edge of the knife, turned and set the bowl on the table, shut off the oven. “My
bubbe
told me she nearly got sent back. She had an eye infection and the doctors initially told her she’d be refused admission to America. Can you imagine, Stanley? You can see the Statue of Liberty from Ellis Island. She told me she stared at it for two days. Until the doctors decided to let her in.”

Moodrow opened the oven and began to carefully slide the toasted bagels onto a plate. “Your grandmother ever say why they changed their minds?”

“She never asked.” Betty set glasses and a quart of orange juice on the table, then sat down. “The family came from a place where Jews didn’t question authority, at least not openly.”

The phone rang just as Moodrow finished spreading a layer of cream cheese on a sliced onion bagel. “If that’s Gadd,” he announced, “I’m gonna be very pissed.” He sprinkled a few scallions over the cream cheese, then carried the bagel to the phone.

“Yeah.”

“A little abrupt this morning, aren’t we?”

“How did I know it was you?” He sensed her hesitation, that his hostility had taken her off guard, and was instantly apologetic. The progression surprised him. “Tell me you’re calling because the cops’ve taken Jilly and you want that drink we talked about last night.”

“No such luck.” She hesitated briefly. “Look, yesterday, when I got home, I found a message on my answering machine from Patricia Kalkadonis. She and her mom are leaving New York, leaving
tonight,
Moodrow. They want to see us before they go.”

Moodrow started to say,
Tell ’em I died,
then checked himself. “No matter what I do,” he finally declared, “I can’t seem to shake this case.”

“Hey, Moodrow, look at the bright side. Once Ann takes off, it really will be over.” She paused long enough to clear her throat. “Meanwhile, it’s time to pay the piper.”

An hour later and several miles to the north, Abner Kirkwood and Karl Holtzmann strolled beside the fountain outside the complex of white marble buildings that make up Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. They’d gravitated to the fountain because of the noise, the rush of the waters, instinctively protecting themselves against eavesdroppers. This despite the fact that neither believed himself to be under surveillance.

Kirkwood, more aware than his companion, put their collective paranoia down to a guilty conscience. After all, they
were
talking about murder. “You speak to Ewing?”

“An hour ago. He’s beside himself, Abner. Sappone’s been riding him pretty hard.” Holtzmann laughed, shook his head. “The way we set it up, Bob’s as much a prisoner as Jilly Sappone.”

“Just make sure he doesn’t try to do something about it, Karl. Make sure he doesn’t open that door.”

“I told him we’d be taking Sappone off his hands in twenty-four hours. He’ll last that long.” Holtzmann stopped abruptly. “What I think we ought to do is drive Sappone into New Jersey, leave his body where it’ll be found. With a little encouragement, the media are nearly certain to lay it on Carmine Stettecase’s doorstep.” He took Kirkwood by the arm and resumed walking. “In the long run, if we time our leaks properly, it’ll add to the publicity, keep the case alive between the arrest and the trial.”

As they spoke, the sun finally cleared the high-rise condos to the east of Lincoln Center. Pouring onto the plaza from a cloudless sky, it seemed to penetrate the stone on which they walked, adding a buoyancy to their steps. Kirkwood glanced up at the enormous arched windows lining the southern face of the Metropolitan Opera. The windows were dark now, the building open only to workers, but at night, lit from inside by glowing chandeliers, they framed knots of well-dressed patrons as they strolled toward the inner hall, forming a promenade worthy of an Ivory-Merchant film.

“I assume you want me to go with you tomorrow?” he finally said.

Holtzmann stopped again. “There can’t be any deniability here, Abner.” He ran his fingers over the lapels of his gray, double-breasted jacket. “‘Universal participation protects universally.’ ” A smile lit his face. “Must say,” he admitted, “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, very nice. Look, I’ll be there with you, but I don’t think I can pull the trigger.” He hesitated, tried and failed to smile. “I’ve been considering alternatives, Karl. For instance, why can’t we arrest Sappone? You know, just take him into custody and let the chips fall where they may? Or bring him back to New York and release him? With Ann Kalkadonis gone and Carmine in jail, with Sappone’s apartment and car under surveillance, he won’t last a day on the streets.”

Holtzmann, who’d seen it coming, fought a sneer. He’d served three tours in Vietnam, most of it in command of battle-scarred grunts. Kirkwood, on the other hand, at least according to his FBI package, had spent the war years at Rutgers University, angling for a National Guard slot until a high lottery number had freed him altogether.

“We can’t have him killing anybody else, can we? Or telling his story on
Donahue
?” Holtzmann’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t worry, Abner. When the time comes, I’ll be glad to handle Jilly Sappone. More than glad.” He allowed himself a warm smile. “Now for something more pleasant. I’ve worked out a plan to eliminate the last variable in the equation. That’s what I asked you here to talk about.”

As Moodrow, a step ahead of Ginny Gadd, approached the door leading into the Kalkadonis apartment, he felt a hesitation that bordered on paralysis. The last few days had done a lot to heal his wounds, both physical and psychological. But time had not (and
could
not) change the facts; time hadn’t relieved him of responsibility, only made his ultimate responsibility easier to accept. Until now.

“It’s not gonna get any better, Moodrow.” Gadd stepped around him to knock on the door. “Not until after it’s done.”

A moment later, Patricia Kalkadonis opened the door, then moved aside, nodding to each of them as they passed. Moodrow returned the nod as he walked into the living room to find Ann Kalkadonis, the bruises on her face and neck reduced to a few muddy patches, sitting on the couch. A uniformed cop stood in the center of the room. He watched Moodrow and Gadd enter, then turned and strolled into the kitchen without saying a word.

“Ann?” Moodrow raised his head far enough to meet her steady gaze. He had a little speech all prepared, but found he couldn’t open his mouth.

“Thanks for coming.” She indicated the two clubs chairs at either end of the couch. “Please, sit down.”

Moodrow nodded, then took the chair farthest away from where he stood. He looked over at Gadd as she sat, watched her cross her legs at the knee, drop her hands to her lap. A momentary resentment flooded his consciousness, but then he remembered that she’d been an innocent bystander, a witness and not the perpetrator. She had a right to relax.

“I don’t know if it will do any good.” Ann Kalkadonis looked directly at Moodrow. “But I want to tell you that never, not for one moment, have I held you responsible for what Jilly did to Theresa.” Her voice was steady, if not actually strong, filled with clear determination, the voice of a survivor. “I’m angry, you understand, but not at you.”

Patricia strode into the room carrying a packed suitcase. She laid it next to several others, then returned to the rear bedrooms. Ann waited for her to leave, before resuming.

“I’ve had questions all along. How did he get out? Why wasn’t I notified beforehand?” She took a deep breath, glanced from Moodrow to Gadd. “Where is he now? Why has he been quiet? For the first two days after Theresa was killed, I kept expecting Jilly to come through the front door. That’s his nature and he can’t help it. So, where is he?”

“I don’t know, Ann.” Moodrow inched forward until he was sitting on the edge of the chair. “We’ve been looking for him, me and Gadd, but we’ve run into a dead end.” He quickly outlined their efforts, including their discovery of the apartment and the car. “I’m glad you’re leaving,” he concluded, “because the cops found an arsenal in the trunk of that car Jilly rented. He wouldn’t have put it there if he didn’t expect to come back. If he didn’t have his next move planned out.”

Ann nodded. “Do you think Carmine Stettecase might have …?”

“Anything’s possible. But if Carmine whacked Jilly, he wouldn’t hide the body. Carmine’d want everybody to know.”

“So I’m to be left with my questions unanswered? A poor, helpless woman whose rantings are tolerated in the name of her loss?” She hesitated momentarily, then smiled. “As you might’ve heard, I’m involved in a lawsuit with Con Edison over the death of my husband. Well, I’ve decided to settle and use the money to get some answers. I’ll be working through a lawyer, mostly, using the Freedom of Information Act.” Her voice tightened down, her eyes narrowing as well. “This morning, I gave an interview to a
Newsday
reporter named Marcia Hammond. Once Jilly is taken, I intend to appear on every talk show that’ll have me. My lawyer’s negotiating with a production company that wants to make one of those terrible fact-based network movies out of my life story.”

Moodrow held up his right hand as if warding off an attack. He knew what was coming next and didn’t want any part of it; he felt like a spectator at his own funeral.

“My attorney has investigators of his own, of course, a midtown firm he uses regularly, but I told him I wanted to continue with the two of you. That was presumptuous, I know, but …”

“Tell me something, Ann,” Gadd interrupted, “what happened to the FBI?”

“They left several days ago.”

“Just like that? Just took off?” Gadd looked over at Moodrow, but failed to catch his eye.

“They didn’t think Jilly would try to contact me.” Ann Kalkadonis rubbed the side of her face with the fingertips of her left hand. “Once Theresa was gone.”

“That figures. And the cop in the kitchen?”

“He hasn’t asked to stay in the apartment, but Detective Gorman told me the police would keep the building under surveillance.”

“That’s great, just great.” Gadd glanced at Moodrow again, noting the tight jaw and closed fists. “Look, I don’t wanna get into the details, but we have reason to believe the situation’s gonna resolve itself real soon. Like the day after tomorrow. If Jilly doesn’t make an appearance by then, he’s not gonna make an appearance at all. So, what about you give us a key, let us stay in the apartment? That way, if Jilly decides to pay a visit, he won’t lack for company.”

As Moodrow walked the mile and a half back to his Fourth Street apartment, his mood went from bitter anger to even more bitter resignation. He’d confronted Gadd, of course, as the two left Ann’s building, demanding to know how she could speak for him.

“Or maybe,” he’d concluded, his hand on his hips, “when you said the word ‘we,’ you were speaking as a member of the royal fucking family.”

Gadd had simply turned away. “Look, I wanna go over to my apartment, put a few things together, get back before Ann takes off. That doesn’t leave me a lotta time.” She’s stalked off a few steps, then turned. “What could I have done?” she asked, “make it seem like I was gonna cut you out? We’re talkin’ about a paying client here. And a private investigator who lives in an office above a pornographic book store.”

“You could’ve just backed off, let the game play itself out.” His response had sounded lame, even to his own ears.

“I don’t see it. Not while there’s still a chance.” A smile lightened her face. “C’mon, Moodrow, it’ll be fun. I’m gonna bring my laptop and a modem, see if Tommaso’s left me another message. I didn’t mention it, but we exchanged electronic mail last night. Tell ya the truth, it’s the closest I’ve come to a genuine romance in the last year.”

And that had been that. Ginny Gadd had stalked off down the street, leaving Moodrow to his own thoughts, thoughts that ran from the pleasure of watching Holtzmann with two
n
s squirm in the public spotlight to the stark reality of the blue wall of silence. Breaking the code was unthinkable, as was letting the hated fibbies off the hook. Meanwhile, out of nowhere, he was tired again, ready for bed.