Death Dance (38 page)

Berk looked back to see if Mike appreciated his humor.

"Friday night. You remember Friday, Chapman, don't you? I
didn't need no gloves on Friday. It was a beautiful spring night, my
driver puts me right in front of the plaza at Lincoln Center and I walk
fifty yards to the theater. What gloves? Who says they're mine?"

Mike didn't answer.

"Maybe I oughta go through my closet, detective. See if
anybody stole a pair from me. You'll show me the glove, won't you? I
can probably tell you where and when I bought them, how much I paid.
Then we can figure out who took the damn thing from me and see if
you're capable of solving that kind of crime. Larceny," Berk said,
dragging out the first syllable of the word to mock Mike.

"Depends who has access to your clothes, I guess. Maybe one of
your relatives—someone close enough to get into your drawers.
It might be the time to ask about, say, your family."

"Don't forget half the coat-check girls in town. They could
have lifted my gloves, too. Every time I went to lunch this winter,
every time I went to dinner. You gotta do better than this, Chapman."

"I'd rather talk about folks closer to home."

"Talk fast. I'm not feeling good."

"Your son. The young one."

"Briggsley? What about him? You think he's a glove-snatcher,
detective? He's got an allowance, he can buy the whole goddamn glove
department of any store you can name. Bergdorf, Saks, Har-rod's,
Dunhill."

"There's one other—uh—illusion, I guess
you'd call it, that I'd like to clear up. It's about Lucy DeVore."

"The swinger?" Berk said, taking deep breaths again. "The girl
on the swing. Don't bullshit me that she's talking, detective. You
contribute as much money as I do every year to that hospital, they'll
tell you the status quo of anyone you want to know about. They get her
out of that coma, I'll be the first to know."

"There are a few people around town who saw your son with
Lucy. People who'll say that they were hooked up with each other until
you got in the way. I thought maybe that would remind you about exactly
where it was you saw Lucy dancing the first time. About how it was she
came to your attention."

The hyperventilation had turned to disgust. "You got no reason
to bring my boy into this. He's a good kid, detective. He doesn't have
the eye for women that I do, but he'll grow up. You leave him alone."

I knew Mike didn't need Joe Berk's help to get an address for
Briggs. He was just pushing the old man's buttons to see whether he
could find a hot one. "I only want to ask him a few questions. I know
from the night of your accident he had the key to your place."

"Yeah? That makes him a crook? So my niece was in here, too
,
that night."

"That was after the murder, Joe. Mona was here after the glove
was found at the Met. You're telling me I can't talk to Briggs?"

"I don't want to see his name in the papers, okay? He's out in
Los Angeles for a week or two. He's helping his brother close a big
deal for BerkAir. He comes back, be my guest."

Berk shuffled over to the elevator and pressed the button,
waiting for it to open.

"You send him out of town to get over the girl?" Mike asked.

"He's like his old man, detective. The girls love him. Two
weeks out in Malibu he'll find someone more his type. More my type,
too. You need somebody to pick up the pieces of what's-her-name's
broken bones? Lucy? Talk to Alden."

"What?"

"Hubert Alden. That's his kind of trash."

"You were pretty sure of that when you suggested to Mr. Vicci
that he dangle Lucy in front of Alden at the audition."

Berk stepped in the elevator and turned to face us. "That
wasn't the first time Alden saw the girl. I know my players, detective.
You look surprised. Did he tell you something different?"

Mike's expression must have given him away. "You're certain of
that?"

"I'm not a mentalist, sonny. I'm no Houdini. The girl was
two-timing my kid with Alden. I saw it with my very own eyes."

The doors closed and Joe Berk vanished without telling us when
or where.

"We can stop for lunch, swing by your apartment to pick up
whatever you need, and I can still get you to the airport for the three
o'clock shuttle to Boston."

"That's fine. What are you in the mood for?"

"Fresco," Mike said. "Can you get us in?"

The Scottos ran a superb restaurant on East 52nd Street,
packed with a power crowd at lunch as well as in the evening. I called
and Marian sneaked us into a table in the bar, skirting us past folks
who'd reserved the prime tables in the main dining room.

"Don't be doing one of those salad things on me," Mike said,
opening the extensive menu. "The food's too good."

"You're right," I said, asking the waiter for cavatelli with
sausage and broccoli rabe, while Mike ordered the grilled bronzino.

As hard as I tried to bring the conversation around to how he
was dealing with Valerie's death, he wouldn't allow me to go there. As
soon as we got off the subject of work, he snapped back into an
introspective—almost sullen—mood.

Mike waited in the car while I went up to my apartment to
change out of my chalk-striped business suit and heels into a
turtleneck sweater, slacks, and my driving moccasins. The Vineyard
would be cooler than the city, especially at night. I kept enough
clothes there so I didn't have to carry a suitcase back and forth, and
had only a small tote with some things I'd bought for the house since
my last trip.

At that hour of the afternoon, the ride to LaGuardia was only
twenty minutes from the Upper East Side. We talked about our
impressions of the characters we had met in the case, and what secrets
each seemed to be hiding from us, and then I asked Mike how he planned
to spend the weekend as we approached the US Airways terminal for my
flight.

"I'll see what Peterson turns up on Ralph Harney. We've still
got to cross-check background and alibis on all the guys who live on
Staten Island or near the Watchung Mountains."

"How about Chet Dobbis?"

"I want to do him myself. Try to get to Hubert Alden's office,
too. See what he's like in his natural habitat."

"It wouldn't be the first time someone who presents himself to
us so cleanly has a seamier side. You'll call me if you get anywhere,
won't you?"

"Sure. When does Joanie arrive?"

"Tomorrow. She's flying up from D.C., so we were supposed to
meet in Boston and go over together in the morning. I'll call her to
explain when I get there."

"You don't mind being alone tonight, do you? Your letter
bomber's behind bars."

I smiled at Mike. "You didn't give me much choice, did you?"

"Bring me a doggy bag, Coop."

"I know. Fried clams from the Bite," I said. Mike had spent a
lot of time with me on the Vineyard over the years, and agreed that the
most delicious clams in the universe, as I liked to brag, were served
from a little wooden shack in Menemsha, owned by my old friends the
Quinn sisters.

"And give my love to the Baroness von Clam," he said,
referring to the nickname he'd bestowed on Karen Quinn, who flirted
with him notoriously whenever we showed up for lunch.

"Will do." I said good-bye and walked through the revolving
door to buy my e-ticket at the kiosk. I couldn't remember another
occasion when Mike had dropped me off without parking the car and
hanging out with me until flight time, but then everything seemed
slightly different these days since Val's death.

I made my way through the metal detectors and
sat—shoeless— to be wanded and patted down by the
security crew. The plane was late coming in from Boston, so there was a
delay in the servicing before we boarded.

I sat alone at a window seat for die smooth fifty-minute
flight, then repeated the check-in process again at the busy Cape Air
counter, which rolled out its tiny Cessnas to the Vineyard and
Nantucket, Hyannis and Providence, with impressive order and timeliness.

The flight was full—a pilot and eight
passengers—so I settled quickly into place in the cramped
cabin. I tucked my legs in front of me to make room for the man who
took the seat next to me, separated by a space so narrow that one could
hardly describe it as an aisle, and made the mistake of engaging him by
thanking him for waiting while I got comfortable and fastened my belt.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

I held up the book jacket.
"Daniel Deronda."

"That's the author?"

"No, it's the name of the novel. George Eliot wrote
it—her last book."

The two propellers were revved up to maximum speed as we
started to pull away from the terminal. Their noise and the likelihood
of bouncing around in the air pockets frequently encountered at the low
altitude of Cape Air's short flights made conversation difficult most
of the time. That and the fact that I was reading an obscure Victorian
novel probably known only to English literature devotees and librarians
these days should have been enough to ensure that my seat partner left
me alone.

As the plane vibrated on the deeply potholed runway, my
neighbor leaned his head in toward me. "What do you do?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked what you do for a living."

I gave him my best grin. "I'm a single mom. Four kids."

I had gotten from coast to coast and from New York to Europe
several times without ever having to make small talk to guys sitting
next to me after giving that answer. It was a foolproof conversation
killer with lonely businessmen angling for a pickup.

"That's great. How old are they?"

He was either lying or dumber than he looked. "Six, four, and
the twins—they're two. I've cornered the market on diapers."

I smiled and put my nose back in the book until he spoke
again. "I love kids. You have pictures?"

"They're in my tote. I gate-checked it." I assumed he was a
comic or a pedophile, seemingly undaunted by my imaginary brood. But I
liked his face, despite my initial instincts. His nose was crooked and
he had wire-rimmed glasses that sat too far down on its bridge to look
comfortable, but showed off the gray-blue cast of his eyes.

"What kind of mother are you? Can't believe you don't have
snapshots in your wallet."

We climbed slowly up out of Logan. If this guy was planning to
chat me up the whole way, it would be a tedious thirty-three minutes.

"It's so rare we're apart that I don't need pictures to remind
me. Can't ever have a moment's peace with four of them demanding
attention. Feed me, change me, blow my nose, feed me again. You know
how it is." If that didn't make it clear to him, I didn't know what
would.

The wingtip caught the edge of a cloud and the plane started
rolling in the clear-air turbulence. I turned my head to stare out the
window into the thick white mass we had just entered,

"You a nervous flier?"