Death Of A Dream Maker (13 page)

He saw at once how much the search was costing her.
“I'm sorry.” He patted her hand gently. “I'll be right beside you.
I won't let them take your things.”

“We can't stop them,” she said quietly, and, to her
horror, found herself perilously close to tears. Auntie Lil never
cried, not unless her life was in danger. But then, it felt quite
suddenly as if it were.

“They won't stop,” she added. “Not until they win one
way or the other. None of them have ever liked me. I was always an
outsider. Someone who might take Max away from them and then what
would they do? They could not make a move or earn a dollar without
him.” She stared down at the small mementos of their life together,
at the watercolor and the blue vase. “I never wanted anything from
Max except to be with him. That's why he's left it all to me.”

“Almost all,” T.S. reminded her gently. “I don't
understand why he left the rest to me. I never met the man.”

She looked at him quietly. “There are things about it
that I don't understand myself.” She sighed as a series of thumps
behind her signaled the opening of yet another closet. This time a
plaster bust collection of great composers purchased years ago in
Vienna tumbled from the top shelf of the hallway closet onto the
balding head of the older officer. She saw, without caring, that
Wagner's face had cracked. Oh well, she'd always thought him a bit
overwrought.

Flustered, the detective attempted to replace the
remaining busts on the closet's top shelf. In doing so, he pulled
the wooden slat from its bracket, sending the entire upper half of
Auntie Lil's closet crashing to the floor. Stacks of concealed
detective magazines rained down on the poor man's head. He landed
on his rump and was buried up to his waist in cheap newsprint.

“I took those to the basement,” T.S. whispered. He
eyed his aunt sternly.

She lowered her eyelashes, but did not actually
attempt to bat them. “I saved them just in time,” she whispered
back. “That could be a valuable collection one day,” she added
indignantly. “I've got all of the issues.”

T.S. groaned and helped the detective up from the
floor, hastily stacking the magazines title down in an effort to
preserve Auntie Lil's reputation. The man was too dazed to notice
and spent half an hour on the couch, recuperating from the
blow.

An hour later, the search was over. The officers had
selected various objects and letters to bring with them—but none
with any significance to Max that Auntie Lil could see. “I'm afraid
I'm going to have to ask you to come into Manhattan, ma'am,” the
oldest officer informed her. “The officer in charge of the case
would like to question you.” He glanced at T.S. “I suggest you
bring your lawyer with you.”

“My lawyer is on his way back from Aspen. My nephew
here will inform him of your actions. I'll go with you now,
however. I wish to speak to the officer in charge.”

The cop shrugged and reached for the photo album. “I
need to look at that.”

She would not hand it over.

“Ma'am, page three of the warrant lists any
photographs of you and the deceased together—”

“For God sakes, these photographs are forty years
old!” T.S. broke in angrily. “What possible relevance could they
have?”

“Sir, page three of the warrant lists—” the detective
repeated.

“I'll bring the album myself,” Auntie Lil
interrupted. She stared the man in the eye.

No one argued.

The officers were not uniformed, but that did not
mean that they were unobtrusive. The moment Auntie Lil emerged onto
the sidewalk in front of her home, flanked by this trio, the entire
neighborhood knew that the long arm of the law had reached out to
tap Auntie Lil on the shoulder. The teenagers hanging out on her
street inched closer and watched as she marched to the unmarked
car.

“Yo, Granny,” one called out. “Looks like you been
pinched.” His companions giggled uneasily—little old ladies were
the last bastion of respectability in their world. This was not a
sight that they really felt was funny.

Auntie Lil gave the youths a brave smile, modeling it
after Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca.
Her spirit was
returning. The victory of the photo album had revived her. She
would not let them take Max and their memories away.

T.S. was dispatched to the airport to pick up Auntie
Lil's lawyer. By the time he arrived at the precinct with Hamilton
Prescott, Auntie Lil had been fingerprinted and installed in an
empty interrogation room. No one had even asked her name yet.

“Where is everyone?” T.S. asked his aunt. She was
paging through the photo album, running her fingers over
photographs of Max.

“They gave up as soon as I got here,” she said
simply. “I did just what you told me. I said I would say nothing
until my lawyer got here.” She smiled bravely at T.S.'s companion,
who bowed briefly in homage to her good sense.

Hamilton Prescott looked every inch the part of the
expensive lawyer. He stood out against the grimy surroundings of
Midtown South like a debutante at a convention of shoe salesmen. He
was a small man, no more than five and a half feet tall, but
extraordinarily dignified. His snow-white hair was abundant and
carefully cut to give the impression of order and power. Between
Aspen and the station house, he had managed to change into an
expensive dark blue suit energized by subtle gray pinstripes. His
handkerchief matched his tie.

“Who's in charge of the investigation?” he asked
Auntie Lil, placing an ostrich-skin briefcase on the scarred metal
table.

“I am,” a loud voice interrupted from the door.

“You?” Auntie Lil asked faintly, her heart beating
rapidly in her chest.

“Me.” A man entered the room with a smile that would
have sent small children running for cover. He wore a good suit,
but it hung on him badly. He was stout and his belly sagged over
his belt as evidence of sedate middle age. He had a large, rounded
head and doughy features. Thinning strands of greasy black hair
were combed ineffectually over his balding pate in a transparent
attempt to hide a receding hairline.

“Lieutenant Abromowitz,” T.S. said faintly. He held
out a hand. It was gripped in the lieutenant's hammy fist,
mechanically pumped and returned slightly mangled.

Lieutenant Abromowitz pulled out a chair. The angry
screech of metal legs on linoleum sent a collective wince through
the room. “We meet again.” He smiled nastily and plopped down
across the table from Auntie Lil.

“I should have known,” she said. “Midtown South. The
White Collar Crime Task Force.”

The detective's smile grew thinner. “That was last
month. This month I'm back on homicide. Thanks to you.”

“To me?'

“Maybe it's more accurate to thank your good friend,
the recently deceased Max Rosenbloom. I've been keeping an eye on
him through the task force. They consider me something of an expert
on Max Rosenbloom. Which is why I'm back on homicide.
Specifically—his homicide. Being an expert on Max, I'm a little
surprised that your name has never come up in connection with him
before. Yet I understand he left you quite a pile. Care to explain
who, what, when, and how?”

Hamilton Prescott coughed and produced a business
card, presenting it to the lieutenant with a discreet flourish.
“We've met, sir,” he reminded the detective. “I am, of course, Miss
Hubbert's lawyer.”

“Of course.” Lieutenant Abromowitz flipped the card
slowly in his hands without looking at it. He was staring quietly
at Auntie Lil, and she did not like it one bit. He looked much too
smug for her comfort. He had not even bothered to goad her, and
this was most disturbing. He looked like a man who held all the
aces on the first draw.

“Are you a criminal defense specialist?” Lieutenant
Abromowitz asked Prescott in a cheerful voice.

“No, sir, I am not,” the lawyer replied in his
faintly Boston accent.

The detective stood up with an elaborately staged
yawn. The chair screeched again beneath him. “Then I suggest you
find Miss Hubbert someone who is. She's going to need one.” He
smiled at Auntie Lil.

“May I speak to you outside in the hallway?” the
lawyer responded firmly. He did not approve of sarcasm.

“Certainly.” Lieutenant Abromowitz nodded to Auntie
Lil and led Hamilton Prescott out of earshot, down the hallway.

“I don't like this,” Auntie Lil whispered to T.S.

“No wonder,” T.S. said loudly back.

The next few minutes passed in agonizing slowness.
Auntie Lil sat without speaking, the photo album pressed like a
talisman against her chest. She could feel her heart beating
steadily against the smooth leather. She concentrated on the
sensation and it calmed her. Closing her eyes, she imagined Max on
his horse, galloping across the desert at sunset. Courage. He had
always said that she had more courage than anyone else he had ever
known. She would need all of it now.

When her lawyer returned, he was alone. Abromowitz
had been persuaded to wait a day, Prescott explained. “They want
you to come back tomorrow for questioning.”

“You'll be here with me?” Auntie Lü asked.

The lawyer shook his head. “I'm afraid the lieutenant
is right, Lillian. You need a criminal defense specialist. I have
someone in mind. I'll give her a call this afternoon. I'm sure
she'll agree to take on your case once I explain the
situation.”

“It's a woman?” Auntie Lil said. She felt a little
bit better. She'd never had a woman lawyer before and she liked the
idea. But then, she'd never been under suspicion of murder,
either.

“What have they got?” T.S. asked Hamilton Prescott.
“They can't be serious about suspecting Aunt Lil.”

“Unfortunately, they can. At least serious enough to
justify questioning her. As the older sister insisted, her
fingerprints were indeed found throughout Max Rosenbloom's
residence and also in the home belonging to his brother.” Prescott
stopped and eyed Auntie Lil steadily. “I'm sure there's an
explanation for this phenomenon. You'll want to let your new lawyer
know.”

T.S. was staring steadily at Auntie Lil. “Let me get
this straight. Her fingerprints were found both in Max's house, and
in Abe Rosenbloom's home?”

“That is correct.” Prescott coughed nervously as
Auntie Lil turned away from her nephew's furious glare.

“You lied to me,” T.S. pointed out indignantly. “See
where it's gotten you?”

“Oh, Theodore,” she began.

“Don't you ‘Oh, Theodore’ me. Never again.” He lifted
a finger, then could not decide what to do with it. He wagged it
foolishly in the air. “Never again lie to me, Aunt Lil. I mean it.
Don't even think about it. You've really gotten yourself into
trouble this time. My God, look at you, being fingerprinted and
everything that goes with it.”

The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Actually,
they want to fingerprint you as well,” he informed T.S. “I would
recommend, perhaps, that you not—”

“No need,” T.S. interrupted with exaggerated dignity.
“They may fingerprint me all they want. I am not the sort of person
who breaks into other people's homes.” He held up his palms. “They
may ink away.”

Herbert Wong could not stand being unable to help
Auntie Lil. At the same time, he was not given to rash action. This
dichotomy translated into a decision to wait for T.S. in the lobby
of his Upper East Side apartment. He'd wait all day, if need be, to
see if he could be of behind-the-scenes assistance. He was a
patient man and had been there for two hours already when T.S.
returned from the precinct.

Mahmoud the doorman let T.S. know he had a visitor
before he was even out of the cab. “More trouble, Mr. Hubbert?” he
asked, raising his eyebrows and wiggling them furiously. It was his
idea of discretion. He nodded in the direction of the lobby. 
T.S. spotted Herbert sitting on the edge of a small settee.

“Mr. Wong is my friend,” T.S. said calmly. “His
presence does not necessarily indicate trouble.”

Mahmoud shrugged skeptically. “He is also your aunt's
friend. And she always means trouble. Not that she isn't a most
lovely and generous lady.” Translation: Auntie Lil was a notorious
overtipper and Mahmoud was caught between loyalty to his pocket and
allegiance to a resident of his beloved building.

T.S. sighed and went to rescue Herbert. If an overly
familiar doorman was the price he paid for a rent-controlled
apartment overlooking York Avenue, so be it.

Herbert was resplendent in a shiny black suit and a
black T-shirt. No tie. He looked like a guest star on
Miami
Vice.
However, as always, his innate dignity transcended his
sartorial excess. “T.S.” He rose politely and nodded, his head
gleaming beneath the lobby lights.

“Herbert.” T.S. put an arm around the elderly man's
shoulders and led him into the elevator, away from Mahmoud's prying
eyes. “We must talk. Aunt Lil is at this very moment sitting in the
offices of a criminal defense specialist. Let's hope that her
lawyer is a good one.”

Herbert's guilt was overwhelming. Within a few
minutes he had confessed his role in the break-in of Abe and Abby
Rosenbloom's home. He was properly repentant and exceedingly angry
at himself for having participated in the scheme that landed Auntie
Lil in the soup.

“But she is, of course, impossible to stop once she
gets it in her head to do something,” he finished with resignation.
“Nonetheless, I must atone for my capriciousness. There must be
something I can do to help. If we do not find who really killed Max
Rosenbloom, then Lillian may be in grave danger. It is not that I
believe the police truly suspect her of the murder. It is their
desire to quickly wrap up the case that I fear. She might become a
scapegoat. All it would take is some common criminal out to get a
reduced sentence for his crime by turning into a fake informer. He
could say that Lillian hired him to plant the bomb, and who would
be able to dispute it?” As his imagination sketched in this
scenario, he grew increasingly agitated.