First Kill (6 page)

“Good evening, Detective,” Hartley began. “I hope you don’t object to this impromptu meeting.”

“Don’t mention it. I do my best work out on the street.” I pointed to the surveillance camera drawing their attention to it. “Say
cheese
… Perfect. You’ve been forever immortalized. Now, what’s on your mind?”

Hartley reached into his breast pocket and handed me an envelope. Judging by the thickness of the envelope, I’d say it looked very much like an alibi. “This should spare my client much unnecessary trouble. It’s a signed affidavit from the night doorman at 14 Sutton Place, stating that Mr. Quinlan entered the building at roughly ten p.m. and remained there all night.” He handed me the envelope.

I was familiar with 14 Sutton, a red-brick, pre-war building on 56th Street.

“He’s staying at 14 Sutton?” I said with surprise in my voice. “That’s a nice place. I wish I could afford digs like that.”

Hartley grinned uneasily. It made him look even more unattractive. “I own several small apartments throughout the city … as investments. As you can imagine, the burden of a trial and incarceration have left Mr. Quinlan with no visible means of support. I simply provide him temporary accommodations.”

“Wow, you really are a full-service attorney. Do you do catering?”

Hartley must have had restricted air passages. His laugh sounded more like wheezing. “My but you are delightful. No, Detective, no catering, but event planning is not out of the question.” His attempt at humor was accompanied by additional wheezing.

“The two of you must be close,” I said.

“Thick as
thieves
, Detective.” Quinlan sounded cocky to the core as he hissed the word
thieves
in his heavy accent.

“Exactly what I was thinking, Sean … or is it Seamus? It seems I can never keep track.”

“No hard feelings, Sweetheart—we beat you in a court of law … fair and square,” Quinlan said smugly.

The lawyer in Hartley stepped forward and took charge. He placed his hand on Quinlan’s arm, putting an end to his smartass chatter. “We’re not here to discuss old matters, Detective, but simply to save you the time and trouble of questioning my client as I have no doubt you’ve planned.”

“Let me cut to the chase. I assume we’re talking about the night that one Nadine Fey was fatally stabbed. Am I correct?”

“Exactly correct, Detective,” Hartley replied.

I took the document out of the envelope and quickly looked it over. “This states that Sean Quinlan was seen entering the building. It doesn’t mention Seamus. Where was
he
on the night of the murder?”

“There’s no need to be belligerent, Detective,” Hartley said with wide eyes to convey his outrage.

“I’m not being belligerent, Mr. Hartley. I’m just making sure this isn’t another of your loopholes.”

Hartley pressed his palms together. He was wearing gloves, so technically he was pressing calfskin together. “I assure you, Detective, Sean and Seamus are as one in this case. If need be, I can prepare an affidavit to that effect.”

“Good, because it
need be
.”

Quinlan sneered. “You’re a smartass cop, ain’t ya, darlin’? I’ll have you know I spent years on a psychiatrist’s couch.”

“And all those sessions kept you out of jail. How fortuitous.” I could see that Quinlan was furious. I folded the affidavit and shoved it back into the envelope. “Anyway, this means nothing. You could’ve slipped out the back or through a window.”

Hartley was clearly unhappy with my lack of tact. “
Really,
Detective,” he huffed with outrage. “The apartment is on the tenth floor.”

“So, you never saw the
Wizard of Oz
?”

“Your point?” Hartley snapped.

I began to walk back toward the precinct entrance, stopped, turned to face them, and shrugged. “
Monkeys
fly.”

Chapter Eleven

Despite his terrible posture, Cronan Hartley was head and shoulders taller than anyone standing in front of the hostess as he entered the Union Circle Café.
He caught Brigitte’s eye immediately. “Give me a moment,” she said to the couple attempting to check in with her. She gathered a menu and a wine list and raced up to Hartley. “Mr. Hartley, you’re alone tonight?” He nodded. “Right this way.”

“Do you have something quiet, Brigitte? It looks like you’ve got all of New Haven in here tonight.”

“Yes,” she concurred with a smile. “It’s a busy night in Connecticut—thank God.”

He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand.

“Long day?”

“Terribly. I just want to eat and go to bed.”

“Jean Paul will fix you up something nice and hot. You’ll feel better with a belly full of good food.”

“Excellent, and the quicker the better. The drive up from the city was horrendous. I’m completely frazzled.”

A busboy was setting a table for two. Brigitte snapped her fingers. The busboy looked up and cleared one of the place settings. Brigitte offered Hartley the menu after he had been seated. “Not necessary,” he said. “I know what I want.”

“Yes, of course. What would you like?”

“Spinach salad and the organic salmon.”

“Yes, very good. Can I bring you something to drink?”

“Just bubbly water.”

“Done. Your first course will be right out.” As she raced off, she pointed at the nearest waiter. “Perrier for Mr. Hartley, right away.”

Hartley pressed his back against the chair and felt the tension release from his spine. The couple that Brigitte had abruptly disregarded in order to seat him was staring at him in a manner that made him feel odd. He looked away when the waiter approached to fill his water glass. “Good evening, Mr. Hartley. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“His dinner, Kevin,” said the chef, Jean Paul, who had just stepped up behind the waiter. “His salad is up. Don’t keep our guest waiting.” Kevin withdrew to the kitchen, and Hartley stood as Jean Paul approached the table. “Cronan, my friend, where is your lovely wife, Claire?”

“She’s in West Palm Beach for the winter.”

He nodded to express his understanding. “While you work like a dog. But tell me … spinach salad and salmon? Lovely choices, but where is your appetite? No oysters? No fire-roasted lamb?”

“That was the old Cronan,” he replied self-effacingly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“How about some scotch? I just opened a bottle of Lagavulin? That will set you right.”

Hartley met the offer with bloodshot eyes and a defeated sigh. “Gout.”

~~~

The valet brought Hartley’s Rolls Royce around to the restaurant entrance. Hartley tipped him a twenty and pulled the door closed on his own. “Call Claire,” he said aloud. His instructions were met with the actuation of the cabin speaker system. He could hear the phone dialing as he sped down Chapel Street.

“Cronan, love, how was dinner at Union Circle?”

“Ha! Are you having me followed?”

Claire Hartley laughed. “No, Darling, no one is following you. Phoenicia Cortland called me. She said you barged into the restaurant and went right to your table, ignoring her and her husband completely.”

“The Cortlands? Do I know them?”

“You should. You met them at the yacht club this summer.” Claire gave it a moment to sink in. “They were the ones speaking to Brigitte when you confiscated the table that was being set for them.”

“
Oh
my.
I was almost out on my feet. I honestly didn’t remember their faces. That’s why I’m calling you now. I’m going to bed the moment I get in.”

“Then sweet dreams, love. I’m off to play mahjong with the girls.
Kisses
.” A pop emanated from the speaker as the call disconnected.

Hartley drove the rest of the trip in silence. He was weary and needed his full concentration to navigate the winding roads in the dark. He had just cleared the estate entrance gates when he felt a cold, steel edge against his throat and heard the mocking voice coming from the rear seat. “I’m glad you enjoyed your last meal, Cronan …
Kisses!
”

Chapter Twelve

A light snow had fallen overnight leaving a thin, white blanket on the Central Park lawn
. It had snowed just enough to be pretty but not heavily enough to make a mess—the snow on the paths had already melted. Saturday morning in Manhattan: the day had that right-with-the-world feeling. Crisp air pinched my cheeks as I lifted a cup of coffee to my lips. “So tell me all about yourself.”

Steve Farrell looked decidedly more casual in his jeans and corduroy jacket. He kicked a stone off the path and then turned toward me grinning. “I might put you to sleep.”

“Boring stuff?” He nodded. “Embellish if I start to yawn.”

“Embellish? I’m an attorney—I make my living embellishing. By embellish, I presume you mean make up copious amounts of bullshit?”

I nodded. “Nothing too heavy, just enough to keep me from lapsing into a coma.”

He smiled, showing off his dimples. “I spent my early years in Vermont—typical farm-boy childhood. I played baseball when the ground wasn’t frozen, skied … milked cows.”

I chuckled—I didn’t know many guys who knew their way around udders … well, not bovine udders anyway. “I haven’t met many farm boys.”

“A city girl like you … I didn’t think so. Anyway, my father sold the family property when I was about ten and made a bundle. My mom had grown tired of rural life, and so that’s when we moved to Manhattan.”

“So when did you decide that you didn’t like bad guys?”

“When the DA offered me a job.”

“That’s pretty honest. No call to justice? You’re not going to rant about ethics and morality?”

“Initially it was just a paycheck. My family has always been pretty private—I didn’t have a lot of connections to fall back on, so I took what I could get. After a while though, the job grabbed hold of me. I’ve been hounding dirtbags ever since.”

Some of the cops on the job didn’t think very kindly of lawyers, even public prosecutors like Farrell. It was something of a no-guts-all-glory mentality. I didn’t have a problem with them—guns and handcuffs aren’t for everybody. “Is that when you became the Brooks Brothers Avenger?” Farrell had that down-home lawyer look honed to a tee: gray, natural-shoulder suits, neatly cropped hair, and wire-frame glasses—like Clark Kent but without the comma of hair over his eye.

“Ha. You’re all right, Chalice.”

Just all right? Did you check out my butt? Wait a second, I’ll walk a few paces ahead. I’m told it’s not to be missed.
I watched smoke puff from the rooftop of a nearby building. “What about your mom?”

I’m not sure why my question hit Farrell so hard. It took him a long while to answer, and he had a far-off look in his eyes when he did, “That’s a long story.”

It felt as if we were having a good time until I hit him with my bull-in-a-china-shop question. I wasn’t sure where to take the conversation after that, so I made the mistake of talking about the case. Sometimes I have the romantic instincts of a Doberman. “So Hartley was one step ahead of us.”

“The alibi affidavit? Gee, I don’t know; I kind of saw that coming. He was just doing what any good lawyer would have done. Hartley’s not exactly small time. As a matter of fact, I’ve been wondering how Quinlan can afford to retain him. Hartley doesn’t do a lot of pro bono work, and then when you told me that he gave Quinlan a place to stay …”

“Yeah, maybe that’s worth looking into.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. “

Our cell phones went off at practically the same time. We exchanged suspicious glances—there’s no such thing as coincidence in our line of work.

~~~

Max Blick adjusted the focus on his field glasses; the image of the young woman next to Farrell sharpened. She had just pulled a cell phone from her pocket and was gazing at it. He watched as she put the phone to her ear.

He scratched his thick sideburns and tugged down on his plaid cap until only the ends of his sideburns remained visible. He looked through the lens again—Farrell was now on the phone as well. Blick heard the ground crackle behind him and quickly angled his binoculars toward the top of a distant tree, just as an elderly couple approached.

“Birding?” the gray-haired man asked. The couple came to a stop alongside Blick and gazed in the direction of the treetop.

Blick nodded. “I thought I saw a cardinal.”

“Oh, cardinals are so beautiful,” she said. “They used to feed in our yard.”

Her companion shielded his eyes, trying to get a better view. “Too far away for
me
to see,” he complained.

“Come on, Harris. Let’s not disturb him.”

“Enjoy your walk,” Blick said without watching them depart. He redirected his gaze back to the young woman and then to Farrell. “Another pretty one,” he muttered. “I don’t know how he does it.”

Chapter Thirteen

Blick leaned against the railing at Rockefeller Center watching two boys whip around the ice rink, hot-dogging it as they weaved around more leisurely skaters.
Man, that looks like fun.
One of them came too close to another skater and spooked him. The skater’s feet went out from under him. He winced as he slammed butt-first onto the ice. He swore, “Son of a bitch!” and shook his fist at the snickering boys.

Ooh! That’s got to sting.
Blick checked his watch—it was exactly noon. The sun warmed his face as he withdrew his cell phone, dialed, and waited for his call to be answered. Five rings … six. He finally heard the call connect. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Hold on.”

He heard an electrical whine in the background, which he recognized as the hum of a pool lift motor. He took a few deep breaths while he waited for the noise to stop and visualized the frail man being lowered into the heated swimming pool in the basement level of his Manhattan brownstone.
Must be nice,
he thought, allowing envy to surface.

“Right on time.”

“How’s the water?” Blick said, masking resentment of his employer’s ostentatious wealth. He pictured the large indoor pool and the wisps of steam rising from the water toward the ornate crystal chandelier.