Deadly Rich (76 page)

“I’ll ask him.”

Across the kitchen, the telephone made a purring sound.

Why can’t my phone at work sound like that
? Cardozo thought.

“Maybe that’s him.” Terri lifted the receiver off the wall. She listened for a moment and turned. “For you, Dad.” She handed the receiver across the table.

“Cardozo.”

It was the call he’d been dreading—the precinct, saying a seventh Society Sam victim had been found.

“
HOW DID SHE DIE
?” Cardozo said.

The assistant M.E. was kneeling over the body. She had long cinnamon hair, and she worked with an expression of cool, unhurried detachment. “Bled to death.”

Cardozo frowned. “Are you sure? The others died of asphyxiation. The stomach cuts were postmortem.”

The assistant M.E. glanced at him through huge, unstinted fashion glasses. “Just look at this floor. If these cuts were postmortem, that was a nosebleed.”

Cardozo looked at the floor. Blood had pooled in a three-foot-diameter oval and caked deep rust-brown. Toward the edge of the pool it was beginning to flake.

He gazed down at the dead girl. She lay faceup, long blond hair splayed out on the warped, scuffed floor-boarding of the narrow hotel room. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old.

Younger than Terri.

At one time she must have had a pretty, rather doll-like face. Now it was puffy and startlingly white. Her abdomen had been slashed in the same flag design as the others—except this time the killer had pulled her clothing out of the way and cut directly into the skin. The pattern seemed extraordinarily clear and exact.

The killer had left her breasts exposed. They were the small prematernal breasts of puberty.

The room had no wastebasket. The victim had used a Woolworth’s shopping bag instead. A young male detective was bagging the contents in separately labeled evidence Baggies: an empty yogurt carton, a give-away sample of hair-conditioner, an empty carton of Maxx larger-shape lubricated condoms, and Robbie Danzig’s new gossip column “Robbie’s Rumors,” neatly clipped from the June nineteenth edition of the
New York Tribune.

There was a hard white flash of light as the police photographer snapped a picture of coins and cosmetics and bits of paper that littered the dressing table.

“She’s in pretty good shape. Most of. these kindergarten cases are.” Using steel tweezers, the assistant M.E. was lifting particles from the mouth area that Cardozo couldn’t even see. She transferred them one by one to a plastic evidence Baggie. “Not that they take any care of themselves at all. They’re just too young for anything to have started falling apart.”

This living woman
, Cardozo thought,
resents this dead woman.
“How long’s she been dead?”

“From what I can see, around four days.”

That figured. It was usually around day four that a dead body began stinking badly enough to annoy the neighbors, and Lorna Webster was stinking so strongly the lab men had scattered ammonia crystals to counteract the smell.

Classical music was playing softly from a small portable radio on the windowsill. “What’s the music?” Cardozo said.

“Mozart’s twenty-fifth piano concerto.” Lou Stein was crouched at the edge of a pink bath mat that had been pressed into duty as a scatter carpet. He was examining a dark area on the fringe that could have been the dirty heel print of a jogging sneaker.

He was smoking a cigar, and the dark lump of ash winked red. On crime scenes where there was a rotting body, nonuniformed male personnel sometimes smoked cigars to cover the stink. To Cardozo’s nose, Lou’s cigar didn’t cover anything—it just added a stink of its own.

“Wait a minute.” Lou Stein’s flash beam rippled along the edge of the mat and stopped. “What the hell’s that?”

His gloved finger folded back a corner of the mat. The beam of light played over a two-inch area of pale white seepage in a crack between floorboards.

“That looks to me,” Cardozo said, “like what’s left when a candle burns down.”

Monday, June 24

“THE CHAIR ON OONA ALDRICH’S TERRACE
,” Dan Hippolito said, “is wrought iron. If Dizey Duke had gripped the back hard enough, it could have caused the bruise on her left hand.”

“If she was in fear for her life,” Cardozo said, “if she was trying to anchor herself to keep from going over the wall?”

“That would do it.”

“And the bruise on Nita Kohler’s left hand?”

“Going by the photos, I’d say it could have been caused the same way—gripping the back of the same chair or a similar chair in the same or similar circumstances.”

“Thanks, Dan. You’ve cleared up a lot. I appreciate it.” Cardozo hung up the phone, not at all happy.

In the squad room a detective was screaming, “We got a squeal. Who’s up?”

Ellie Siegel stepped through the door. “Any surprises in the reports?”

Cardozo shook his head. “The seventh note was assembled from the same materials as the other six. The little hooker was killed with the same knife, same MO as the others. The blood cells in the semen are type O—same as Rick Martinez’s. No surprises. Except this time the pubic hair is his too.”

“That’s a switch.”

“He had time, this time, for real sex. Syringeless.” Cardozo stretched and pushed himself an arm’s length from the desk. “What did you find out from the Wall Street post office?”

Ellie helped herself to a chair. “You’re not going to love me, Vince.”

“Love was never an issue between us.”

“The note was postmarked
P.M
. Friday. The earliest, the
very
earliest it could have been mailed is Friday morning.”

“But Martinez died Thursday afternoon.” Cardozo sighed. “Okay. Dead men don’t mail letters, right?”

“In an imperfect world like ours, they do not.”

“Then someone else mailed it. Someone who didn’t know Martinez was dead till they heard it on the Friday afternoon news.” Cardozo sat there letting the implications drift through his mind. “Look at Society Sam’s notes—they’re written in idiomatic, quirky English. People who spoke with Martinez don’t remember him having that kind of command of the language. And there’s no way he could have gotten to those mailboxes all over hell and back. He had a regular job and he was there six days a week. An accomplice had to have written and mailed
all
the notes.”

Ellie smoothed out her skirt. “Could I ask a rude question? Who’s the accomplice?”

“I can’t give you the name.” Cardozo opened his desk drawer. “But this is the voice.” He brought out the Sony cassette player and placed it on the desktop. He pressed the play-back button. After three beeps and two hang ups a man’s voice spoke.

“
Hi Rick, how are you doing
?
I’m phoning Tuesday, June eighteenth. Thanks for completing the pickup yesterday. You have one more pickup scheduled, the timing and the merchandise are up to you. Have fun. I’ll meet you Thursday, June twentieth, two
P.M
.,
on the path at West Seventy-first, just inside the park. Look for me on the bench. See you then.
”

There was the clicking sound of a phone hang up. Cardozo stopped the tape.

“That’s not an accomplice,” Ellie said, “that’s an employer. Martinez was his hit man.”

Cardozo nodded. “A Medellin hit man. Import the very best.”

“Vince, you’re a mess.” Ellie rose and walked to the filing cabinet. “I tidy this up for you every day, and every day it looks like a dog was digging for a bone.” She opened the drawer and tucked dangling papers back into their proper folders.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that. You’re spoiling my filing system.”

Ellie turned. “Why was Martinez working at the gym? He didn’t need the second paycheck.”

“I can think of reasons. It made him less of an unexplained presence in the city—and so long as Braidy was scheduled last, it simplified one of the hits.”

Ellie closed the drawer. “Do you recognize the voice on that tape?”

“No. Do you?”

She shook her head. “Did he show up in the park?”

“Didn’t see him.”

“So you have no idea who he could be.”

“Except for one thing: Either he knew Carl or he knew me, or he knew us both. Because he was there. And he saw us first.”

There was a distinct wryness in Ellie’s smile. “That narrows it down to half the New York phone directory.”

Cardozo frowned. He made a complete 360-degree turn in his swivel chair.

“Wait a minute,” Ellie said. “He has some kind of connection with Bodies-PLUS. He knew they had an opening for a towel boy. And he knew Dick Braidy worked out there.”

Suddenly something inside Cardozo’s chest took a flying jump. “Hold it. I think I know—in fact, I know I know where this guy gets his medical insurance.”

“
I NEED A FAVOR.
” Cardozo was leaning against the head-high partition that separated Monte Horlick’s cubicle from the rest of the fourteenth floor of the Blue Cross building. “Was Richard Martinez covered on a group policy?”

Monte Horlick’s fingers danced over his computer keyboard. Amber print crawled up the screen. “SACBA. They’re a Federal subagency. Substance Abuse Control Budget Administration.”

“Could you give me a list of all the policy holders?”

Horlick brushed the low-hanging blond bangs out of his left eye and tapped an instruction into the keys. The printer beside his desk clattered to life.

Eight minutes later, Cardozo was squinting at eleven accordion-fold sheets of single-spaced dot-matrix print. Here and there a familiar name leapt out at him: Kristi Blackwell, the Delanceys, the Guardellas, mother and son, Rad Rheinhardt of the
New York Trib
, Lawrence Zawac of Internal Affairs. Most of them were followed by the suffix
cow.
“What does
cow
mean?”

“Cooperative wraparound. The holder has his primary wraparound with another employer. The SACBA contract picks up the slack.”

“What does this capital
T
after Nan Shane’s policy number mean?”

“Terminated.”

“
ARE WE STILL ON FOR LUNCH
?” Tori said. “One sharp at Archibald’s?”

“Does it have to be Archibald’s?” Leigh said.

“My, my, are we still boycotting Archibald’s?”

“No. Of course not. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to face that place.”

“Of course you’re ready. And if you’re not, all the more reason to go. It’ll be therapy. And I’ll be with you.” There was a click on Tori’s end of the line. “Sorry. Let me see who’s phoning.” In a moment she was back. “I have to take this call. Can I call you right back?”

“I’ll be here.”

Leigh spent the next three minutes in front of her mirror, trying to decide whether to wear her hummingbird brooch on her blouse or on her jacket. She’d pinned it to her blouse, for the second time, when the phone gave a soft buzz.

“Tori?” Leigh arranged a pillow against the headboard and pulled her feet up onto the bed. “I was being silly. Archibald’s will be fine.”

Tori didn’t answer.

“Tori? Do you hear me?”

Still no answer.

Leigh sat up. “Are you there?”

The silence flowing over the line had a familiar, disturbing resonance. It was as though someone had boosted the volume on a radio receiver that was tuned to no station at all.

And then she heard breathing. Exactly the same breathing as before. A spike of panic ran up her spine.

“Don’t think anything’s changed.” It was the same voice as before, softly rasping, forced down to an abnormally low register. It didn’t have the slightest trace of a Hispanic accent. “Don’t think you’re safe. I’m watching you. I’ll get you very soon.”

XENIA DELANCEY OPENED
the bedroom door. At the end of the corridor she could see Jimmy sitting on the living room sofa. He seemed to have forgotten that the phone was still resting in his lap.

“Aren’t you working today?” she said.

He gave a start—that child-caught-out look. “You’re home early, Mom.”

“Yes, I felt poorly.”

Jimmy’s glance did not stay on her. She could tell he was hiding something.

“Me too,” he said.

“Are you phoning someone?”

“No, just sitting here.” He placed the phone back on the end table. It seemed to her a guilty movement.

“I made these for you.” She handed him a milk-pint-sized package neatly wrapped in tinfoil, with a red ribbon tied in a perfect bow.

He unwrapped the package. “Wow. Chocolate chip cookies. Thanks, Mom. These are great.” He just sat there staring at them.

“Would you like some milk to go with them? Or a nice cup of cocoa?”

“No, thanks.” His voice was oddly low and without expression. He still wouldn’t look at her. “I’m going out. There’s something I have to do.”

ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE
the phone purred softly. Even though Leigh had been waiting for the sound, the mouse gnawing at her nerves gave a leap forward.

The purr came again. Beneath the telephone the answering machine clicked into life. One eye winked green.

“Hi, it’s Tori again. Sorry to take so long. You haven’t left, have you?”

Leigh lifted the receiver. “No, I’m here.”

“Has something happened? You sound awful.”

“The man who attacked me wasn’t Rick Martinez. The man who rode in the warehouse elevator with me wasn’t Rick Martinez. And the man who just phoned threatening my life wasn’t Rick Martinez.”

“Wait a minute. You just had a threatening call?”

“Two minutes ago. It was the same voice as before—and the same threat. The police
didn’t
get him. He’s still out there.”

“Phone Vince Cardozo. I’m not kidding.
Right away
.”

Leigh dialed Vince Cardozo’s direct line. After six rings a woman answered. “Vince Cardozo’s line. Ellie Siegel speaking.”

Some instinct made Leigh hesitate. “Detective Siegel, it’s Leigh Baker.”

“Yes, Miss Baker. How can we help you?”

Leigh noted the
we.
“Could you ask Vince—could you ask Lieutenant Cardozo to phone me? It’s an emergency.”

“Is it anything I can help you with?”