Mean Streak (24 page)

Guys like Jesse Winthrop, who actually understood what was going on and were capable of standing apart from it, were as rare and precious as rubies.

Matt Riordan had spent his whole life becoming King of the Hill, and now he was defending his right to stay on top. He had never stopped to question that major premise, never been able to let go of the compulsion to be right, to be the best.

And if he had indeed killed Eddie Fitz, as I was deeply and horribly afraid he had, it was because Eddie threatened his position on top of the hill.

The question was: Who else was Eddie trying to knock down? Who else stood to lose if Eddie was publicly exposed as the most corrupt cop in the city?

Nick Lazarus, for one. Like Riordan, he accepted the rules of the masculine game. You're either on top or you're nothing. You're either a bully or a patsy. You've either got balls or you're a girl. Eddie Fitz had played Lazarus for a patsy. In Lazarus' world, this merited a death sentence.

“Did Lazarus know the truth about Eddie?” I asked. “I have reason to believe he did, but I want to know what you think. Did Lazarus put Eddie on the stand knowing that he was going to lie?”

“If he did, he was taking one hell of a chance,” Winthrop pointed out. “There were a number of people who could have taken the stand and blown Eddie out of the water.”

Playing devil's advocate was one way to get through law school without directly playing King of the Hill; you didn't exactly challenge the alpha male, but you undercut his position with little zingers that had him scrambling for territory.

“People like TJ?” I asked with a sly smile. “But TJ was dead. He was dead the whole time Riordan and I were combing the five boroughs looking for him. And if Lazarus knew he was dead, he had nothing to worry about putting Eddie on the stand. He'd know from the beginning that TJ wasn't going to pop up and tell the world Eddie was his partner in crime.”

Jesse made the logical leap I had every confidence he was going to make. “You want me to write a column accusing the United States attorney's office of having a drug dealer killed so he wouldn't tarnish their chief witness.”

“Face it, Jesse,” I replied, “your book deal is down the tubes unless you change your premise from Eddie the Hero Cop to Eddie the Guy Who Screwed Everyone and Got Away With It. Why not start with a column raising a few questions about what Lazarus knew and when he knew it?”

“I don't suppose you have any information you'd care to contribute to this column, Counselor,” my companion said. “In the interests of journalistic integrity, of course. No benefit whatsoever to your client.”

I brought Winthrop up to date on everything I'd learned from Dom Di Blasi and Fat Jack Vance.

“So here's the prosecution rushing to judgment to nail Matt Riordan for Eddie's murder,” I concluded, “when the truth is we wanted Eddie alive so we could discredit him. The only people who benefited from Eddie's death are Nick Lazarus and Davia Singer.”

“Nice try, Counselor,” Jesse's gravel voice replied, “but what about Stan Krieger and the other cops? Aren't they getting a reprieve, what with Eddie out of the way?”

“Yes,” I agreed crisply. Always concede what you absolutely have to. “Yes, but why now? Why kill Eddie now? Why not before? Why not later? The only reason to kill him right now is that he was on the verge of being unmasked before Judge de Freitas.”

“As I recall, you were the one he threatened with disciplinary action,” Winthrop countered. “It seems to me Lazarus just had to sit tight and watch you go down in flames.”

“But if I didn't go down in flames, if Matt and I managed to prove to the judge that Lazarus deliberately suppressed evidence that Eddie had committed crimes, the, judge would have turned his wrath on Lazarus. He still will; he'll have no choice. No judge wants a lawyer from either side parading perjured testimony in front of a jury and getting away with it. De Freitas would have to discipline Lazarus, and if he does, there goes Lazarus' political career.”

Winthrop stood and gave a little bow, then walked with a heavy, old man's tread toward the door of the coffeehouse.

I watched him go, then ordered a second cappuccino.

He'd left me with a great deal to think about. Underneath my ringing defense of Matt, there was an uneasy suspicion that Winthrop and Zebart might just be right about Matt. He'd wanted Lazarus destroyed; he had to feel the same way about Eddie Fitz.

Had Matt gone from my bed to the stone steps of the courthouse instead of to St. Andrew's Church? Had the man who'd held me in his arms, made hot, sweet love to me, gone from me to the killing ground where Eddie Fitz lay in his own blood?

That would be worse than going to Taylor's.

Or would it?

I needed to know. I needed to know whether he'd betrayed me with Taylor or with murder. Either way, it was betrayal, and I wasn't sure which I hated more, but I had to know the truth.

One way, of course, was to ask the lemon-haired lady in question.

The doorman let me up without a second glance. Apparently I was dressed well enough for the Upper East Side; the designer briefcase didn't hurt either. My low-heeled Ferragamos clicked on the tile floor. The lobby was decorated in black and white, with silver accents and not a speck of color. It was as cold and unwelcoming a place as I'd ever seen in the five boroughs. But it was chic as hell.

Her apartment was directly under the penthouse, which meant she had almost the same million-dollar view for considerably less in monthly maintenance. Shrewd, but then I'd never thought Riordan was a man who liked dumb broads.

She opened the door with a wide but puzzled smile. She invited me in with the same cool grace she'd probably used on the
New York
magazine people when they'd come to photograph her apartment. As I recalled, the theme of the article was “Country Life in the Heart of the City.”

What people in the Midwest think of as country: mass-produced wooden doodads with little carved holes in the shape of hearts. Dried flower arrangements with the flowers dyed Federal-blue. Cute sayings in calligraphy with folk-art designs around the border. Anything with geese on it, especially if the geese are wearing ribbons around their necks.

What Taylor Fredericks considered country: a Shaker chair, just one, against a white wall, an authentic shawl draped over the little rod on the back. A sampler, dated 1823, framed, next to a doll's quilt with yellow and pink butterflies. A warming pan of highly polished brass, a hand-embroidered footstool next to a rocking chair hand-carved in mellow yellow wood. A dry sink with a painted china basin.

In short, a very high-class antique shop—with modern touches: a print (or was it a print?) of a painting by Leonor Fini, a glass-and-brass coffee table with a big book on the Wyeths lying invitingly on top, a Noguchi lamp next to the rocking chair.

I could live here. I could really live here.

For the first time, I saw Taylor Fredericks as a person. If she lived in a place that appealed to me, a place I could see myself living in, then she had to be somebody I might actually like if I got to know her.

I didn't want to get to know her. I didn't want to like her. All I wanted was to find out if Riordan had said anything important to her the night that Eddie Fitz had three bullets pumped into him.

She asked if I wanted tea.

Tea, yet. I withdrew the notion of liking her; this was all too civilized for me.

I nodded; tea meant I'd be staying a while, and I wanted all the time I could get with her.

I explored the bookshelves while she went into the kitchen. The kitchen I didn't have to see; I remembered that very well from the magazine piece. Copper everywhere. A stripped pine table with turned legs. A pie safe.

I'd always wanted a pie safe.

Her books were hardcover, lots of modern fiction, mainly by women. A whole shelf of heavy picture books on American antiques. Some pop history, no pop psychology. No genre fiction. All hard-core quality. I thought of my prized collection of Dell mapbacks and wondered if she had a softcover in the place. Maybe the bedroom; I wondered how I could catch a glimpse of—

The old bathroom dodge. I could peek in on the way to the powder room. And then I could sneak open the door to the medicine cabinet and wipe out my entire day's stock of self-respect.

The prescription bottles were in the name of Sarah T. Fredericks. The “T” had to be for Taylor, which she'd taken as her first name, dumping the too prosaic Sarah.

Hah. I knew a name like Taylor Fredericks was too good to be true.

What else about her was phony? Her ash-blond hair? I didn't expect to find any telltale Clairol bottles; that kind of color you pay a fortune for on Fifty-seventh Street.

There were no paperbacks in the bedroom. The book on her night table was the latest Alice Walker. And the quilt on the bed was to die for. A friendship quilt, with the names of all the ladies who'd worked on it sewn into the border. The design was log cabin, with rich colors and odd squares depicting buildings that seemed taken from life: a school-house, a church, a barn, a—

“What are you doing in here?”

“God, what a fantastic quilt!” This was not cleverness on my part; I coveted the quilt, and the fact that I'd originally opened the door to spy on her was wholly forgotten. Who cared what she read or what her real name was? She had wonderful taste and the luck and money to indulge it.

“It's from Pennsylvania,” Taylor said, a hint of pride creeping into her voice. “It's called a friendship—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Because a group of women make it for a friend, usually someone who's going away. They were often made for minister's wives, when their husbands moved on to a new congregation.”

She nodded agreement. “This one was made for a doctor's wife,” she explained. “The buildings in the odd squares were real buildings in the town of—”

“God, it's gorgeous. How ever do you find a thing like that?”

“I spend a lot of time antiquing,” she said. She turned toward the bedroom door, a subtle sign that I should follow.

I did. “I apologize for going into your bedroom,” I said. “I just saw that quilt and I had to get a closer look.”

“Matt didn't say you were an antique buff,” Taylor remarked.

“I'm not. Not like you. I have a few pieces given to me by clients on Atlantic Avenue, but nothing like this.”

We talked antiques through the first cup of tea. Earl Grey, a little flowery for me. I prefer Darjeeling, but I poured two or three drops of milk into it and drank thirstily. The china was English, bone china with tiny curlicued handles that made my hands seem huge. She had arranged little butter cookies on a plate. I took one and nibbled at it, feeling like a Sara Paretsky character suddenly dropped into a Jane Austen book.

Well, hell, if I was a bull in a china shop, it was time to start breaking crockery.

“Was Riordan with you last night?”

She choked on her tea. “Why do you—”

“Not because I care that he went from my bed to yours, I assure you,” I said with a bitchy pomposity that would have gone down well on a soap opera.

“From your bed to—” Either she was having trouble keeping up or she was stalling till she decided how much to tell me. And I didn't think she was stupid.

“Look, this isn't personal. A man was killed last night.”

“That policeman?” Her voice rose on the last word, but it wasn't really a question. “I heard something about it on the news this morning. But I didn't hear anything about Matt.”

“Most of the newspeople in this town know better than to throw premature accusations at a trial lawyer. But the fact remains, Eddie Fitz's death means the end of the case against Matt. And that makes him suspect number one in the eyes of the police. So I was wondering how he acted when he came here. Was he upset? Did he say anything about his trip to the plaza?”

“He's been under a lot of stress,” Taylor said in a thoughtful tone. “This trial has been just devastating for him.” She looked at me, her eyes blazing an improbable turquoise. “But I'm sure you know all about that. Although,” she went on, “if he was really in your bed before he came to me, maybe that explains why he couldn't, exactly—”

Was she telling me what I thought she was telling me?

And if she was, poor Matt. Poor old Matt. If there was one thing he couldn't endure it would be for his new flame to reveal to his old flame that he hadn't been able to rise to the occasion.

I stifled my sense of outrage and said, in mock-sisterly sympathy, “Men take these things so seriously. I'm sure you were very understanding.”

Her tone crept into tartness. “I probably wouldn't have been quite so understanding if I'd known he'd already given one successful performance,” she retorted. “As it was, I put it down to stress. And alcohol. Matt had several drinks after he got here. But then, you probably know all about that, too. Mart's always telling me that I should drink real drinks, like you, instead of white wine.”

“I don't drink any more than any other trial lawyer,” I said, stung into defensiveness. It was more than a little disconcerting to realize that Matt considered my ability to down hard liquor one of my better qualities.

I had not come to Taylor's co-op for a temperance lecture.

I lowered the fragile teacup to its saucer and looked her in the eyes. Tinted contacts, I decided, looking at the improbable shade of turquoise. “Did Matt say anything about the meeting in the plaza?” I asked. “Did he tell you that was why he was coming here so late?”

“No,” she replied. She lowered her eyes. Her lashes were long, full, curled; they didn't look mascaraed but they framed her eyes perfectly. She placed a manicured hand on her thigh, smoothed an invisible wrinkle in the silk palazzo pants, and looked up again.