Third Victim (8 page)

He shook his head violently. “Broadway? A musical? You’ve got the wrong guy. I can’t even fit into the seats. By the time I’d get out of there I’d need an orthopedic surgeon.”

“So you’re more of a DVD-on-the-sofa kind of guy.”

“Exactly. I hope you won’t think less of me. It’s just not my scene.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t judge you,”
on your cultural preferences. Now scoot up those stairs ahead of me and give your moneymaker a good shake-shake-shake for mama.

“So as I was about to say, Koufax was offered an understudy role in
Pervy Pumps
, but not necessarily on his merits.”

“Why, then?”

“Because he got a huge endorsement from a famous actor, one that couldn’t be said no to.”

“And that was?”

“Rory Singer, the actor Hank Green said was a no-show for that big Broadway banquet.”

Lido pursed his lips. “Coincidence?”

“Write this down. There is no such thing as a coincidence. We’ve tied Singer to Koufax and Koufax is presumably dead.”

“So we go talk to Singer.”

“That’s right, we go talk to Singer, right after we see what the rabbi has to say.”

Chapter Seventeen

We knocked up the rabbi (figuratively speaking).
It took him some time to come to the door, and when he finally did, he tried to delay us. “My stomach is feeling a bit off. Can we do this some other time? This whole thing has put me off-kilter.”

“We really can’t,” I insisted. “Please open the door.” I heard him sigh from within and then the door opened.

“Come in,” he said dispassionately. “We can sit in the kitchen.”

Lido and I were wearing our poker faces as we sat down around the small kitchen table. It was lovely quality cherry wood, polished to a brilliant luster. The rest of his private kitchen was immaculate, almost absurdly clean, like Felix Unger had lost his mind kind of clean.

He must’ve noticed me looking around because he offered, “I don’t really cook for myself when my wife is away. I take my meals outside.”

“That’s right, you said that she spends the winters in Florida,” Lido said.

“Yes. She has terrible bursitis. She can barely move when it’s cold, and this winter … my God, it’s not fit for man nor beast.”

Okay, time to end the courting period.
Tubman had already wasted an hour of Lido’s time and we knew that something in his story was off. So although he was a man of God, I needed to cut to the chase. “I’ll be direct, Rabbi, we found a large hammer in the basement and we believe that there was dried blood on it. We’ve sent it to the crime lab for analysis.”

“I don’t understand. What does a hammer have to do with a bomb in the kitchen?”

“We believe that one of the victims was not killed by the explosion. We believe that he was murdered elsewhere and deposited in the kitchen after the blast. It’s possible the hammer was used to smash the victim’s face.”

Tubman’s eyes grew large and I could see that he was shaken by the news. He began to pray in Hebrew, words I could not understand. The prayer only lasted a few seconds and then he was back. “Dear God, and you think I did such a thing?”

“We simply have to rule you out as a person of interest, Rabbi,” Lido replied.

“Not that I had any part in this, but how could I hurt someone with the tiny little hammer I use to chisel the children’s dreidels?”

“The hammer we found was pretty hefty,” Lido said.

“It weighed in at the police lab at two and three-quarter pounds. It had a large mallet at the end, certainly heavy enough to do the damage we saw inflicted on John Doe.”

“Not John Doe,” he insisted, “Leonard Koufax—who else would be in the kitchen at that time of morning?” Tubman emphasized.

“We still haven’t confirmed that the third victim was, in fact, Koufax,” Lido advised.

“Listen. You’re wrong about something—the hammer I use is
this
big,” Tubman explained as he indicated the span from the tip of his middle finger to the end of his palm. “It’s delicate. You think I can chip the stone on a tiny little children’s toy with a three-pound mallet like the one you’re describing? I’d break it into a million pieces.” He stood. “Here, I’ll show you.” When he returned, he untied and unrolled a leather tool pouch. It contained a variety of stone-carving chisels and the small ball-peen hammer he had mentioned. “This is what I use,” he explained. “If you found a large mallet in the basement, I can assure you it wasn’t mine.”

Lido and I glanced at each other. The rabbi’s story sounded legit. Still, fingerprinting and a DNA scrub of the large hammer would confirm whether he was telling the truth. “Can we take your tools with us?”

“Help yourself,” he said. “Hanukkah has already passed. I won’t need them again until next year, and I haven’t worked in the diamond trade for thirty years.” He chuckled, “You’d have a hard time killing a mouse with a little hammer like that, let alone an adult man.” He looked from Lido to me with a hopeful expression. “That’s it?” he said with relief. “I was so worried. I didn’t know what you were going to ask me.”

“Unfortunately there’s more,” Lido said. “We called over to Lenox Hill Hospital and there was no record of you being there the night before last. We questioned the men downstairs and none of them were aware of anyone with a grave illness.” Lido pressed his lips shut momentarily. “I hope you can explain why you said you were at the hospital.”

I watched Tubman’s face and saw the blood drain from it.

This is it, something anyway.

“I’d rather not say.”

“You’d rather not say?”

“Correct!” he replied, strongly registering his objection.

“Rabbi Tubman, you do realize that without an alibi we’ll have to consider you a person of interest in this investigation.”

“You have to consider? So consider. I didn’t have anything to do with the bomb and that’s all I have to say on the matter. Are we finished?”

“Why won’t you say where you were?” Lido asked.

“Because I won’t,” he said obstinately. “So please don’t ask me a million times, because my answer will be the same each time. You think I’m guilty? Arrest me. Otherwise I have a prayer service to conduct downstairs.”

“Can anyone vouch for where you were on Sunday night? I mean you were out all evening and a good part of the morning. Certainly you weren’t—”

I looked into Tubman’s eyes and suddenly I understood what he was hiding. He’d played no part in the bombing or the murder of Leonard Koufax. Still, I could see guilt in his eyes. His wife was away for months. He had indeed spent the night with someone, but not his wife, and not maintaining a bedside vigil for the mortally ill. He pleaded with his eyes for me to stay silent and not out him. He was a man of God and I understood that the slightest mention of a transgression might ruin his life, here on earth and for all eternity. I opened my notebook and offered it to him with a pen. “All we need is confirmation of where you were. Write down the name and phone number of the person who can verify where you slept Sunday night and this ends right now—no more questions, and no one will ever know.”

It took a moment for him to accept my offer, but then he slowly reached out and did what he had to do.

Chapter Eighteen

“What time is it?”

Lido checked his watch. “Five thirty.”

“Hank Green said the curtain on Singer’s play goes up at seven. I’m no showman, but I’m pretty sure that the star of a play needs to show up early enough to get into costume and makeup, review script changes, and that sort of thing. If he’s not there already, he should be there soon.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out Green’s business card. “Let’s check in with the press.” I punched in his cell phone number and waited for his phone to ring.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Green, it’s Detective Chalice. We met this morning.”

“Oh yes. You have news for me, Detective?”

“More questions than news.”

“What kind of questions could you possibly have for me?”

“Did you get your interview with Singer?” I cranked up the volume, put the call on speakerphone, and held the phone between us so that Lido could hear Green’s response.

“No. Actually they’re in a tizzy down here at the theater. No one has heard from Rory since the curtain fell after the Sunday afternoon matinee. The show is closed on Monday, so he wasn’t expected back at the theater until thirty minutes ago.”

“And considering he was a no-show for the banquet Sunday night …”

“Yes, yes, they’re going crazy down here. The producer and his assistant are calling all over town, but no one has been able to reach him. They’re warming up his understudy as we speak.”

I hit Lido with big eyes and mouthed,
“Wow.”

“Has he ever disappeared before?”

“Rory Singer? Are you kidding? The man is the last of the great Broadway showmen. He wouldn’t miss a curtain call unless he was dead. He’d have to be lying in a ditch somewhere with his legs missing before he’d miss a performance. The man is solid as rock, I tell you. Solid as a rock.”

“Do you have his address handy?”

“Don’t waste your time, Detective. The producer already sent someone over to his place.”

“And?”

“They should be hearing back any minute. Singer lives in Greenwich Village. You know, with the rush-hour traffic … it could take a cab forty-five minutes to get downtown.”

I looked at Lido and he cranked the engine.

“I need Singer’s address, Hank. We’re on our way.”

Chapter Nineteen

Singer lived on the top floor of the Morton Square Apartment Complex.
A flash of our shields gained us entry to the exclusive residence and an escort from Armand, the building concierge. As we exited the elevator onto Singer’s floor, a young man was waiting to take it down. Even with the skullcap and sunglasses, I recognized him. He was the actor who’d played Harry Potter in the movies, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. It might as well have well been Macedonia, which is another Slavic country I have trouble with.

Lido covered his mouth. “That was Daniel Radcliffe,” he whispered. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice him.”

Maybe I would have if he weren’t the size of a turnip.
The legendary sorcerer was tiny in stature, miniscule to be more precise—an inch or two shorter and he’d have been labeled a homunculus. I was taller than he was and I dare say a few pounds beefier. There’s no way in hell I’d ever date a man that weighed less than I do. By the way, we’d pulled a copy of Singer’s driver’s license on the ride over and he was no giant either. I was beginning to feel like Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians. “I don’t miss anything, Lido. I was just testing you.” I glanced up at the hallway ceiling. “It’s not like the ceilings are low or anything.”

“Meaning?”

“Is there a maximum height rider in the leasing agreement? Neither Singer nor the boy wizard are tall enough to ride an adult Disney attraction.”

Singer’s apartment was down the hall and around a bend. A redheaded kid was sitting on the floor outside his apartment. “The show producer send you down here to find Mr. Singer?”

He nodded and stood up. “I’ve been waiting here about fifteen minutes. If he’s home, he’s not answering the door.”

“
That’s
not good.” I stepped up to the door and knocked loudly. “Mr. Singer. This is Detective Chalice with the New York City Police Department. We’re here to make sure that you’re all right. Can you please open the door?” I gave him a five count and then knocked again, hit the buzzer, and said, “Alakazam,” under my breath, but none of my three attempts made Rory Singer appear. “Mr. Singer? Mr. Singer,” I hollered as I knocked forcefully on the door.

I gestured to Armand. “If you’d be so kind.” He found the master key on his key ring and unlocked the door for us before stepping aside. The apartment was vast, with a sweeping view of lower Manhattan and the river—bright and airy. It took mere seconds to determine that the apartment was empty. The answering machine was flashing. The call counter indicated seventy-six unanswered calls.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Lido said with a sigh.

“
Ya
think?” Addressing the show gofer, I said, “We’ll take it from here. Call your boss and let him know that Singer’s not here.”

He nodded and pulled a cell phone from his pocket on the way out.

Armand was in a hurry to chase us out and lock up, but I told him that we needed to look around. I explained that Mr. Singer may be a missing person and that I had phoned for other detectives to come and investigate. He insisted on waiting while we snooped about, and explained that he would do the same when the other detectives arrived.
Whatever. Knock yourself out.
Did he really think that NYPD was going to loot a celebrity’s apartment? Geez, talk about cops having a bad public image.

“What are we looking for?” Lido asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied with exasperation. “I don’t think the detective’s guide is going to help us on this one. Anything that hits you between the eyes, I guess.”

Despite the frigid outside temperature, Singer’s apartment was generously overheated, hot as the tropics heated, and Armand refused to let us adjust the thermostat. I tore off my coat and blazer and draped them over a kitchen chair before approaching Singer’s desk and giving it a quick once-over. There was little to see. There were few papers on the blotter and the desk drawer was locked.
Next!

It wasn’t intentional. Well, maybe it was, but I wasn’t thinking about it at the moment. Tay’s instructions had paid off. I caught Lido gawking at me.
Now what?
I fretted.
Call him on it, or pretend I didn’t see? Pretend you don’t see,
I decided with Tay’s sermon reverberating in my head.
Give the man his money’s worth.
I was eating up the attention but knew there were more important matters at hand. “Hey,” I hollered after a moment. “Go check out the master bedroom.” Lido looked disappointed, but hell, I wasn’t running a peep show. If he wanted a ride on the Stephanie roller coaster, all he had to do was ask. Well, maybe a bit more than just ask—I’d need a lavish dinner and expensive chocolates, but you get the general idea.