I've Got You Under My Skin (8 page)

16

A
lex Buckley’s alarm went off at 6 
A.M.
, only seconds after his interior alarm made him stir in his sleep and open his eyes.

He lay quietly for a few minutes to collect his thoughts.

Today he would be in Salem Ridge for the first day of filming the Graduation Gala.

He pushed off the sheet and got up. Years ago, a client who was out on bail had come to his office. When he stood up to greet her, she had exclaimed, “My God, I never realized there’s no end to you!”

Six foot four, Alex had understood the remark and laughed. The woman was only five feet tall, a fact that had not prevented her from fatally stabbing her husband during a domestic quarrel.

The woman’s remark ran through his mind as he headed for the shower, but it quickly disappeared as he thought about the day ahead.

He knew why he had decided to accept the offer from Laurie Moran. He had read about the Graduation Gala when he was a sophomore at Fordham University and had followed the case with avid interest, trying to imagine which graduate had committed the crime. He had been sure it was
one
of them.

His apartment was on Beekman Place, by the East River, that
was home to high-ranking UN delegates, as well as quietly wealthy businesspeople.

Two years ago he had happened to visit the apartment, and at the dinner table learned that the hosts were putting it on the market. He instantly decided to buy it. To him, its only downfall was the large, incessantly blinking red
PEPSI-COLA
sign on a building in Long Island City that marred the view of the East River.

But the apartment had six large rooms, as well as servant quarters. He knew he didn’t need so much space, but on the other hand, he rationalized, the full dining room meant he could have dinner parties; he could turn the second bedroom into a den; and it would be handy to have a guestroom. His brother Andrew, a corporate lawyer, lived in Washington, D.C., and came up to Manhattan regularly on business.

“Now you won’t need to go to a hotel,” he had told Andrew.

“I’m willing to pay the going rate,” his brother had joked, then added, “As it happens, I’m sick of hotels, so this will be great.”

When he bought the apartment, Alex decided that instead of a biweekly housekeeper it would be better to have one full-time employee who could keep the apartment clean, run errands, and prepare breakfast and dinner when he was home. Through the recommendation of the interior decorator who had furnished his new home with quiet good taste he had hired Ramon, who had been with one of her other clients but had chosen not to move to California with them. Ramon’s former employers were an eccentric couple who kept erratic hours, and what they didn’t wear they dropped on the floor.

Ramon happily settled in the studio-sized room and bath off the kitchen, which had been designed for a live-in helper. Sixty years old, born in the Philippines, he was long divorced, with a daughter in Syracuse.

Ramon had no interest in Alex’s private affairs, and it would never have occurred to him to read anything Alex left on his desk.

Ramon was already in the kitchen when Alex, dressed in his usual business suit, white shirt, and tie, took his seat in the breakfast nook. The morning papers were next to his plate, but after greeting Ramon and skimming the headlines, he pushed them away.

“I’ll read them when I get home tonight,” he said as Ramon poured coffee into his cup. “Anything exciting in them?”

“You’re on Page Six of the
Post,
sir. You escorted Miss Allen to the opening of a film.”

“Yes, I did.” Alex was still not used to the unwanted publicity that accompanied the celebrity status he had achieved by his frequent television appearances.

“She is a very beautiful woman, sir.”

“Yes, she is.” That was something else. As an unmarried, prominent lawyer, he could not escort a woman to an event without being linked to her. Elizabeth Allen was a friend, and nothing more.

Alex made short work of the fruit, cereal, and toast Ramon set before him. He realized that he was anxious to get up to the home of Robert Powell and meet both him and the returning graduates.

They’d all be forty-one or forty-two by now, he thought, Claire Bonner, Alison Schaefer, Regina Callari, and Nina Craig. Since he had agreed to be the narrator of the program, he had done extensive research on each, and had read everything that had been in the media at the time of Betsy Powell’s murder.

He had been asked to arrive at the Powell estate at nine o’clock. It was time to leave. “Will you be home for dinner tonight, Mr. Alex?” Ramon asked.

“Yes, I will.”

“Do you plan to have a guest or guests?”

Alex smiled at the diminutive man who was looking so anxiously at him.

Ramon is a perfectionist, he thought, not for the first time. He did not like to waste food when it could be avoided, and he happily
welcomed being informed when Alex was inviting friends for dinner. Alex shook his head. “No guests,” he said.

A few minutes later Alex was in the garage of his building. Ramon had phoned ahead, so his Lexus convertible was already parked near the exit ramp with the roof down.

Alex put on his sunglasses, started the car, and headed for the East River Drive. The questions he would ask the six people who were known to be in the house on the night that Betsy Bonner Powell had been suffocated in her sleep were already in his head.

17

L
eo Farley gave his grandson a bear hug as he prepared to climb aboard the chartered bus from Saint David’s School to Camp Mountainside in the Adirondacks. He was careful not to show any sign of his ever-present worry that Blue Eyes might ferret out Timmy’s location.

He said, “You’re going to have a great time with your pals.”

“I know it, Grandpa,” Timmy said, but then a frightened expression came over his face.

Glancing around, Leo could see that what was happening to Timmy was the same with all his friends. The moment of saying good-bye to parents or grandparents was causing a flicker of worry over
all
their faces.

“Okay, boys, all aboard,” one of the counselors who were accompanying the campers called.

Leo hugged Timmy again. “You’re going to have a great time,” he repeated as he planted a kiss on Timmy’s cheek.

“And you’ll take care of Mom, won’t you, Grandpa?”

“Of course I will.”

Laurie had had breakfast with Timmy at six o’clock before she was picked up by a Fisher Blake Studios car for the drive to Salem Ridge. Their good-bye had been tearful, but blessedly brief.

As Timmy turned and got on line for the coach, Leo could only
think that the boy, who now had only an occasional nightmare about Blue Eyes, still retained his awareness of that terrible threat his father’s killer had shouted.

And at eight years old, he was also worried that something would happen to his mother.

Not on my watch, Leo thought. After waving good-bye to the parting campers, he headed for the rented black Toyota he had parked a block away on Fifth Avenue. He had not wanted to risk Laurie catching sight of his familiar red Ford sedan. He turned on the engine and headed for Salem Ridge.

Forty-five minutes later he was on Old Farms Road as the limousine bringing the first of the graduates turned and entered the long driveway of the Powell estate.

18

B
lue Eyes always followed his instincts. He had known that day five years ago that it was time to begin taking his revenge. He had followed Dr. Greg Moran and Timmy from their home in the Peter Cooper Village apartment complex on Twenty-first Street to the playground on Fifteenth Street that afternoon.

It had given him a rush of power seeing the two of them walking hand in hand to the place of execution. At the busy crossing on First Avenue, the doctor picked up Timmy and carried him. Blue Eyes laughed when he saw Timmy, his arms around his father’s neck, a happy smile on his face.

For an instant he had wondered if he should kill both of them, but he decided against it. Then there would only be Laurie left. No, better to wait.

But now it was Laurie’s turn. He knew so much about her; where she lived, where she worked, when she jogged along the East River. He had followed her sometimes onto the crosstown bus and sat next to her.
If you only knew, if you only knew!
It was hard not to say it out loud.

Blue Eyes adopted the “Bruno Hoffa” name after he was released from serving his five-year term. It was really easy to change my name and get phony documents after my parole was completed, he thought.

Most of the last six months, since he was released from prison for the second time, he’d been doing the kind of jobs where no one cares much about your background, like construction work and day labor.

He didn’t mind hard work; in fact, he liked it. He remembered overhearing someone say that he looked and acted like a peasant.

Instead of being angry he had laughed at the remark. He knew he had the squat body and powerful arms people associate with someone who dug ditches, and that’s the way he wanted it.

Even at sixty, he knew he could probably outrun any cop who tried to chase him.

In April he had read in the newspapers that Fisher Blake Studios was going to reenact the Graduation Gala murder and that Laurie Moran would be the producer.

That was when he knew he had to get a job somehow on the Powell estate to allow him to be there without arousing suspicion. He drove past Powell’s property and observed the oversized truck with the
PERFECT ESTATES
sign on it. He looked up the company and applied for a job. As a kid he had worked for a landscaper and picked up everything he needed to know about the job. It didn’t take a genius to mow a lawn or clip hedges and bushes or to plant flowers in the places pointed out by the boss.

He liked the job. And he knew Laurie Moran would be up there a lot when they started filming.

He had seen Laurie at the estate for the first time right after he got the job. He recognized her when she got out of her car and immediately grabbed a grass clipper to get close to the den, where Powell always met business guests.

He could have taken her out that day as she was walking back to her car, but he had decided to wait. He’d waited so long already, savoring her family’s fear. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she was here with her film crew? he asked himself. Wouldn’t the media cov
erage of her death be more dramatic when it was attached to the publicity around the Graduation Gala filming?

Powell had told Blue Eyes’ boss, Artie Carter, that the filming would begin June 20th. Blue Eyes’ concern had been that Powell would order all the planting and mowing and trimming be completed before the filming began.

That was why Blue Eyes spoke to Artie on the 19th, as they were wrapping up their final trimming and planting.

“Mr. Carter,” he said, as he always did, even though the rest of the workers called him Artie. He had explained it was because he had been taught to respect the boss, and he sensed that Carter was pleased by it.

Actually, Artie Carter felt there was something not quite right about Bruno Hoffa. He never joined the other workers for a beer after work. He never entered debates about the baseball season when they were driving from one job to another. He never complained if the weather was lousy. In Artie’s opinion, Bruno had one card missing from his deck, but so what? He was the best worker of all his crew.

As Artie finished inspecting the grounds, he was satisfied. Even the pain-in-the-neck client, Mr. Robert Powell, couldn’t find anything to complain about.

It was then that Bruno Hoffa approached him.

“Mr. Carter, I have a suggestion to make,” he said.

“What is it, Bruno?” It had been a long day, and Artie was ready to go home and have a nice cold beer. Or maybe a couple of nice cold beers.

Now Bruno, his narrow mouth extended into a forced smile, his lidded eyes fixed on Artie’s neck, his tone unusually subservient even for him, hesitantly began his planned speech.

“Mr. Powell came out the other day when I was planting flowers around the pool house. He said that the flowers were beautiful, but he was really annoyed because he knew the film crew would
crush the grass. He supposed it would be inevitable, but he wished he could do something about it.”

“Mr. Powell is a perfectionist,” Artie said. “And our biggest customer. From what I understand they’ll be photographing outside all week. What are we supposed to do about that?” he asked irritably. “We’ve been told to stay off the property after today.”

Blue Eyes began his carefully prepared pitch. “Mr. Carter, I was thinking. We couldn’t have one of the trucks in the driveway, because Mr. Powell would have a fit. But maybe you could suggest I be stationed in the pool house. That way if the film crew tramples on the grass or makes holes with their heavy equipment, I could repair it the minute they leave the area. Also, the people who are in the film might decide to take a walk on the grounds, or maybe have lunch outside and leave litter behind them. I could take care of that, too. If he agrees, I’d have to be dropped off in the morning and picked up when they’re finished shooting at the end of the day.”

Artie Carter considered. Powell was such a perfectionist that this might appeal to him. And Artie knew that Bruno was so self-effacing that he wouldn’t get in the way of anyone in the production company.

“I’ll give Mr. Powell a call and suggest that you be around for the shooting. Knowing him, I bet he agrees.”

Of course he will, Blue Eyes thought as he struggled to keep a triumphant smile off his face. Laurie, you won’t have to grieve much longer for your husband, he told himself. That’s my promise to you.