Deadly Rich (58 page)

“I appreciate your help, Walter.”

“Anytime, Vince.”

“
THERE WAS ONLY
one party preview in the society column in yesterday’s
Trib.”
Seated at the desk in task-force headquarters, Cardozo read from the crime-scene photo of the clipping that had been found under Gloria Spahn’s body. “
Princess Hedwig von und zu Aschenbach is not running out of pizazz. Tonight the red-hot center of
le tout
New York will be the two Park Avenue apartments that ever-resourceful Hedi, with a little help from everybody’s friend, designer hyphen decorator Fennimore Gurdon, has converted into one simply nifty Park Avenue duplex. La Divina Hedi will be treating ninety-two of her intimates to a dinner of pheasant carpaccio
”—and so on and so forth.

“Don’t stop.” Greg Monteleone guffawed, clasping his arms around his chest. Today he was wearing a chocolate-colored shirt and bright green suspenders. “I’m coming!”

“Gloria wasn’t killed anywhere near that party,” Sam Richards said. “She was killed on a back stairway two miles away.”

“So why did the killer leave the column?” Cardozo said.

“Because he’s goofing,” Greg Monteleone said.

“I disagree,” Ellie Siege! said. “The
Trib
society columns are somehow pointing the killer to his victims.”

“It’s a free country.” Greg Monteleone gave one of his suspenders a snap. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

I’ve got enough problems in my life
, Cardozo decided,
without having to listen to the Greg and Ellie Show.
“Okay, guys. I want everyone to think back four years. Did Nancy Guardella’s name ever come up in the Delancey case?”

“Not that I recall,” Ellie said.

“Then why’s Guardella interested in him?” Cardozo said.

“Who says she’s interested?” Sam Richards said.

“She traded his parole for her vote on the energy committee.”

“That bitch doesn’t do anything for anyone,” Greg Monteleone said, “unless there’s a wheelbarrow of unmarked bills under the table.”

“What can a punk like Delancey offer a U.S. Senator?” Sam Richards said.

Monteleone arched an eyebrow. “Salad.”

“Maybe he’s connected,” Ellie said.

“Sure he’s connected,” Monteleone said. “His mom sells summer scarves at a boutique in a Fifth Avenue department store.”

“Carl,” Cardozo said, “where was Jim Delancey last night?”

“Delancey left work a little later than usual.” Carl Malloy hadn’t shaved this morning. His eyes were bloodshot and he took a moment to refer to his notepad. “Eight-fifty. He took his usual slow walk down to Beekman Place. He reached Twenty-nine Beekman at nine thirty-five and went upstairs.”

I’ve also got enough problems
, Cardozo realized,
without this coffee.
He set the styrofoam cup down on the desk and pushed it far enough away that he couldn’t unthinkingly pick it up again.

“Over the next twelve hours,” Carl Malloy said, “two detectives watched the front entrance, two detectives watched the back entrance. Jim Delancey didn’t leave the building till eight-thirty this morning, when he walked to the corner and bought a newspaper.”

Sam Richards sat pulling at his right ear. “That shoots Delancey out of the running.”

“You never seriously believed Delancey did
that
,” Greg Monteleone said. With a sweeping movement of his hand he indicated the five blackboards now standing at the front of the room. Each had its own sad little stick figure: Oona, Avalon, Dizey, Nan, and—today’s newcomer—Gloria.

“Tell me, Greg,” Ellie Siegel said, “why couldn’t Delancey have done that?”

“Because he’s chickenshit.”

“And was he chickenshit when he threw Nita Kohler off the terrace?”

“I must be in the wrong room. I thought this was a task-force meeting, not the Feminist Day of Rage.”

“Maybe you are in the wrong room,” Ellie said. “Or maybe I am.” She rose and marched out of the room.

Greg Monteleone leaned back in his chair and smiled, folded in a curtain of smugness.

“Ellie,” Cardozo said. “For God’s sake, come back.” He went into the squad room after her.

She was standing at her desk, leafing through a manila folder full of clippings.

“Greg was goofing,” Cardozo said. “Don’t let it get to you like that.”

“Nothing that adolescent does could get to me.” She handed Cardozo a clipping. “Have a look at the column Dick Braidy published Tuesday.”

Cardozo saw that she had highlighted one of the paragraphs.

A certain real-estate-and-media mogul is taking very long lunch hours looking at posh pied-à-terres or, pardonnez my French, do I mean pieds-à-terre? Accompanying him on these urban field trips is a certain designing lady who, according to those who’ve been there, has a lot more to offer the eye and the bankbook than his current live-in.

Cardozo’s eyes met Ellie’s.

“Does that designing woman remind you of anyone?” she said.

THE MEXICAN SERVANT WOMAN
led Cardozo into Dick Braidy’s living room.

“I’m sorry,” Cardozo said. “Did I wake you up?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Dick Braidy said, “and that’s my excuse for wearing a bathrobe at nine-thirty in the morning. How can I help you?”

Cardozo handed him the clipping. “You can tell me if the woman in that item is Gloria Spahn. And if it is, who’s the man?”

Dick Braidy was silent. His lips thinned, and Cardozo could feel him running scenarios through his mind.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because Gloria Spahn was murdered early this morning.”

“Oh, my God.” Dick Braidy sank onto the sofa. “I hate to name names. I don’t even know if the story was true.” Something very much like panic was creeping into his eyes. “I got it from a doorman.”

“What was the story?”

“He said Gloria was having assignations with Zack Morrow in an apartment Annie MacAdam was trying to sell.”

“
ACCORDING TO ANNIE MACADAM’S RECORDS
,” Cardozo said, “you looked at two properties—an apartment and a town house.”

Zack Morrow nodded grimly. “That’s right.”

They were sitting in Zack Morrow’s office on the top floor of the
Tribune
building. It was a corner office, with mostly Mission furniture and a picture postcard view of the South Street Seaport.

“According to Mrs. MacAdam’s records, Gloria Spahn looked at the same two properties at the same time.”

Zack Morrow thought for a moment. He spun around slowly in his swivel chair. It was a high-tech design, with chrome rods and white leather padding and tiny radial wheels, and it looked as though it ought to be able to lie down like the front seat in a BMW. “Annie’s records aren’t quite right. Gloria never came to the town house.”

“But you and Miss Spahn did look at the apartment at One twelve East Seventy-second together?”

“Yes, we did. Three times.”

“Why was that? Were you two thinking of buying a property together?”

“No, not quite.” Morrow’s white dress shirt was open at the collar. His finger went up to trace out the faintly contrasting off-white monogram on the pocket. “Not exactly. Gloria was a married woman, and at the moment I …” Morrow’s lips pulled together into a thin, unhappy line. “I’m in a relationship … and we had no place to meet.”

“You and Miss Spahn were having an affair?”

Zack Morrow’s eyes met Cardozo’s carefully. Cardozo detected hesitation.

“I would have liked for it to be an affair. I don’t know whether she felt the same.”

“Apparently she felt enough the same to meet you in properties that Annie MacAdam was offering for sale.”

“We met three times in the apartment on Seventy-second. I asked Gloria to meet me a fourth time, five o’clock yesterday, in the Aldrich town house. I waited for her till midnight, but she never showed up.”

“You waited till midnight?”

Zack Morrow nodded. “Yes. Till midnight.”

“Do you have any idea why she didn’t keep the date?”

“She was angry at me.”

“Why was she angry?”

“Dick Braidy published a blind item. It hinted that Gloria and I were seeing each other. She told me she wouldn’t see me if it was going to involve her in publicity.”

“Could she have decided to break with you over that item?”

“Look,” Zack Morrow said, “I don’t know what the hell Gloria was thinking. To be absolutely frank, I don’t even know what the hell
I
was thinking. She never said she’d come to the town house. I just made the appointment—and hoped.”

“
ONE THING MATRIX MAGAZINE
does not need,” Tori Sandberg said, “is another ghostwritten profile in bullshit. She conned you. She cons everyone.” Tori read from one of the pages of the proposed article: “
Are we as a nation comfortable with sex-selection abortions
?”

Beneath schoolgirlish blond bangs, Anita Flynn’s pale green eyes stared out pleasantly. “Well, are we?” Anita’s position at
Matrix Magazine
was, nominally, editorial assistant. It was part of the outdated feminism around the office that no one was a secretary—they were editorial assistants instead. Which meant that, in addition to answering phones, Anita wrote occasional filler and took home a secretary’s salary and lived in hope of one day seeing her by-line in print.

“The question’s a trap,” Tori said. “You shouldn’t have given her the opening. The issue isn’t sex-selection abortions or incest abortions or any
kind
of abortions, it’s choice
period.
Choice is a woman’s right. You don’t protect rights by subdividing them like a condo and selling them off to interest groups. Bridget Braidy is a publicist for the policies of the most feudal archdiocese in the nation, and I’m not happy giving her space in the magazine.”

Anita’s smile caved in. She pointed a thumb to the wall. “Commissioner Braidy can hear you. She’s right outside that door waiting for her appointment.”

“Appointment?” Tori glanced down at the date book. Anita had scribbled something in the ten-thirty space, and it just conceivably could have been the word
commissioner.

The phone on Tori’s desk chose that moment to ring.

“Christ,” Tori said, “I don’t even want to know who that is.”

The problem with having an editorial assistant was that there were times when you could really have used a secretary.

“Anita, would you please?”

Anita picked up the receiver. “Ms. Sandberg’s line. Oh, Mr. Morrow, she’s stepped away from her desk.”

“I’ll take it.” Tori reached a hand. “Zack, I’m running late for an appointment, and I have to catch a ’copter to the Hamptons at five.”

“Don’t leave me. You’re the only decent thing in my life.”

“I’m in a rotten mood, so if you’re trying to persuade me to come back, don’t try today.”

“You’re part of me, Tori. I can’t go through another night without you. When my arms reach out and you’re not next to me, I feel like dying. I’m nothing without you.”

“Give it a rest, Zack.” Didn’t he have any idea how cornball he sounded when he drank? He must have had a night of insomnia and TV movies.
Poor guy.
Tori flipped the weekend pages of her date book. “I’ll be back Monday morning. How about lunch? I have a cancellation. But do me a favor and be sober.”

“Tori, I’m in trouble. Gloria Spahn’s been murdered.”

“Come off it, Zack.” Channel Eleven must have been showing a Forties’
film noir.
“That’s not funny. Not with what’s been going on. Not funny at all.”

“I didn’t touch her. I didn’t even
see
her. You’re the one I want. Not her. Marry me, Tori.”

“Zack, what have you been taking?”

“Marry me today. Now. Right away.”

“I can’t talk with you when you’re like this, and anyway I can’t talk now. Just don’t drink and whatever you’ve been doing—don’t do it anymore. And don’t forget Monday.” Tori broke the connection. She tried to force her face into a semibelievable smile. “Anita, would you ask Commissioner Braidy to step in?”

GABRIELLE USED THE KEY
with the Annie MacAdam Associates tag to let herself in. The entrance hall of Oona Aldrich’s town house smelled of old furniture polish and emptiness. Gabrielle closed the front door behind her and took the elevator up to the living room floor.

One of the French windows that led to the terrace had been left open.

“Honestly.” Gabrielle glanced out onto the terrace and saw that a chair had been dragged to the wall.
Let it be
, she decided. She saw an empty bottle sitting beside the chair.
No
, she decided.
That will never do.

She went and got the bottle and brought it into the house. She closed the French window and twisted the key in the lock.

She stepped into the brown-and-red bedroom that had been Oona Aldrich’s. She set her oversized Annie MacAdam Associates briefcase down on the gilt beechwood chair and snapped it open. She lifted out two fresh sheets and two fresh pillowcases and made space for them on the table beside the small, canopied bed.

She folded back the silk bedspread. What she saw startled her. The pillows were undented. Unslept-on.

She pulled the spread farther back. The sheets were unwrinkled.

Nobody used the bed
, she realized.

She frowned.

But somebody was here. Somebody drank the vodka and left the bottle on the terrace and forgot to close the French window.

The MacAdam Associates log had listed two five o’clock viewers yesterday for the Aldrich town house: Zack Morrow and Gloria Spahn. Which was why Annie had sent Gabrielle yesterday to put fresh sheets on the bed. Which was why Gabrielle had returned today with a fresh set of fresh sheets.

Something must have happened
, Gabrielle realized; and then, looking at the two sets of fresh sheets,
Something must not have happened.

Gabrielle was just as glad. She was tired of changing sheets for her mother. She was tired of being a combination cook-chambermaid.

As she returned to the living room her eye caught the gap in the bookshelf and she remembered the vellum-bound copy of
Faust
that she had hidden. She opened the bedroom closet and stood on tiptoe. The smell of cedar engulfed her. Her hands explored the upper shelf and finally found the book. She put it back in its place in the living room bookcase.