Fitzsimmons’s gut jutted over an ornate brass belt buckle. There had to be a bar story. Maybe some hapless mechanical bull had collapsed under the officer’s weight.
“Boston Police,” Mummert echoed. He even sounded like a ferret.
“Why Boston? I thought you guys were NYPD.”
“Boston has jurisdiction over this homicide,” Fitzsimmons explained. “We’re working in New York for now.”
For a moment I stood my ground in the doorway. “You didn’t return my call on Friday.”
“Sorry,” Fitzsimmons apologized. “We have a long list of people to interview. We tried your office on Saturday and left a message. We tried here, too, but no one picked up.”
He was right. I had not turned on the answering machine, probably a Freudian thing that dated back to Evelyn and Finn. A message had been my first hint of tragedy. “Mr. O’Rourke. This is Officer Rizzo from New Haven. Will you call me please?” Answering services, even on my mobile phone, had been a source of apprehension ever since.
“But you’re here on a Sunday?” I persisted.
“Like I said,” the leviathan replied, “we have a long list of people.”
I led the officers through the foyer past my bicycle, a carbon and titanium Colnago leaning against the wall under old photos of Bernard Hinault and Jacques Anquetil. Hinault had won the Tour de France five times and earned the nickname Le Blaireau (the Badger) because of the animal’s reputation for never allowing prey to escape. Anquetil, another cycling great, hammed for the camera with a podium girl under his right arm.
“We need to ask you about Charlie Kelemen.” Fitzsimmons rolled his head in an exaggerated orbit, as though to punctuate his sentence. The resulting cracks, bone against bone, made me wince.
“I assumed as much.”
We huddled around three stools in the kitchen. Ordinarily, I would have done the Charleston-hospitality thing and offered them some coffee. Only I was starved now, consumed more by hunger than curiosity. Forty-three miles on a bike will do that.
“Got any coffee?” Fitzsimmons asked.
Oh, great. They’re settling in.
“Yes,” I replied, not offering to brew any. I really wanted to eat pancakes with bananas and maple syrup. None of that imitation crap, either. Only real maple syrup from Vermont.
“Make mine regular.”
Talk about pushy.
“How about you?” I asked the ferret.
“Yeah, regular.” Mummert’s nose twitched.
From six years in Cambridge I knew “regular” meant cream and two sugars.
“That guy looks familiar,” Fitzsimmons said, and pointed to a cyclist’s photo overlooking the island counter.
“Familiar,” Mummert agreed. “I never forget a face.”
“Greg Lemond. First American to win the Tour de France.”
“Why’s he scowling?”
“He was a guest at my last dinner party,” I joked.
Fitzsimmons blinked without smiling. He said nothing. Joe Friday plus 125 pounds. Officer Mummert, sunken brown eyes, pointy nose, small teeth, swallowed saliva or something, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from the motion of peristalsis. He said nothing. Joe Friday minus 125 pounds. My audience had given me the hook.
“That’s Lemond after he completed a stage in the Tour de France. He’s grimacing,” I explained, “because he had ridden thirty kilometers with diarrhea oozing down his legs.”
“Why’d he do that?” Fitzsimmons asked, more curious than disgusted.
“Sometimes you can’t stop.”
“The diarrhea?” Fitzsimmons asked, amused by my unclear reference.
“Funny.”
“Gives a whole new meaning to ‘gotta go.’ ” Fitzsimmons cocked his head to the right with a crack. He cocked it to the left with another.
I hate when people do that shit.
Mummert fidgeted, not interested. His eyes darted round the room, visually clearing my condominium from force of habit. His wrinkled sport coat looked like it had seen action as a pajama top.
“How well did you know Mr. Kelemen?” Fitzsimmons asked.
“Best friend.”
“Any enemies?”
“He pissed off a Yalie named Hurley once. But that’s it.”
“Lila Priouleau’s ex,” Fitzsimmons confirmed.
The due diligence impressed me. “You spoke with Lila?”
“What do you think about Hurley?” Fitzsimmons shot back, taking command, not answering my question.
“Total loser. Beat his wife. But I doubt he killed anyone.”
“Why’s that?”
“The guy’s a wuss. We haven’t seen him in years.”
“You’re a bright guy,” Fitzsimmons observed.
I hate when people start that way.
“And the victim was your best friend. You must have suspicions about someone.”
“Charlie was a human Rolodex,” I said.
“Short and boxy?” Mummert interrupted.
“That too. He knew everybody, more people than me, and that’s saying something. All my friends loved Charlie Kelemen.”
“Somebody didn’t.” With that comment, both cops began firing questions. They barely waited for my response to each round.
Fitzsimmons: “How long did you know the victim?”
Mummert: “What do you know about his work?”
Fitzsimmons: “Who were his closest associates?”
Mummert: “Where’d you get your Southern accent?” Clearly, no topic was taboo.
Fitzsimmons: “Did you see anything strange at the aquarium?”
“Well, yes,” I replied. “There were two hundred and fifty men wearing black tie and burkas.”
Mummert: “Do you remember anyone pushing a stainless-steel cart?”
Fitzsimmons: “Where were you when Mr. Kelemen fell into the tank?”
Mummert: “Was he drinking?”
Fitzsimmons: “Did you notice anything unusual before the party?”
I had watched my share of
Law & Order
reruns. The questions sounded routine. Mummert, however, probed the more personal issues. I didn’t like it. “Nice place,” the thin officer observed in low, guttural tones. “Big for a bachelor.” He shifted on his stool.
“Widower,” I corrected, and held up my left hand to display the wedding band. Inside, it read: “Grove, you are my true love. Evelyn.”
“Sorry,” Mummert apologized. “There aren’t family pictures anywhere,” he observed, “just all these guys with bikes.”
“I keep the photos of my wife and daughter hidden. Tough in an empty house.” Both police raised their eyebrows at the mention of “daughter.”
______
Months after the accident on I-95 North, I quarantined all memories of Finn and Evelyn. Their feminine scents had clung relentlessly to the closets and drawers. Their photos, scattered everywhere, filled me with longing. I stuffed girl things—clothes, jewelry, the whole shebang—into Finn’s bedroom. So began the somber diaspora of self-preservation. There was no other way to cope. My picture at work, Evelyn and Finn at the beach, was the only one out.
Every few months Charlie suggested I donate Evelyn’s gems to charity. “Here’s how I see it. Evelyn was all Yankee. Frugal. Practical. Logical. You probably have four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stones there. Take a tax deduction. Evelyn would approve. It’s cash in your pocket. Giving it to another woman would piss her off.”
“Another woman, Charlie? I can’t even think about a date.”
“Yeah, yeah. There will be a day,” he replied dismissively. “I can take care of the jewelry, the receipts, all the crap you need for the IRS. I know the right guys on Forty-seventh Street.”
“I don’t know, Charlie.”
“What’s not to know?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I ask. But don’t you ever bitch about your taxes to me.”
The opportunity to bitch at Charlie about anything was long gone. Evelyn’s jewelry box still sat on the nursery bureau, still full, the issue still unresolved.
Mummert, Fitzsimmons, and I sat. We said nothing. We breathed the miserable air. Fitzsimmons finally interrupted the moment. “How would you describe Mrs. Kelemen’s relationship with her husband?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“They seem like an odd pair.”
“Really odd,” Mummert agreed.
“He was fat,” Fitzsimmons continued, “and she is . . .”
“Smoking hot,” I finished for him. “You’re a big guy, Detective. How’s your love life?”
Fitzsimmons, a powerful man unaccustomed to rebukes, backtracked. “I don’t mean to off end you.” He opened his palms and tilted his head to the
side. His words soothed, but his body language said,
I know the thought’s crossed your mind.
“Charlie worshiped Sam.”
“What about her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was Mrs. Kelemen faithful?” Fitzsimmons clarified.
“She never misses Mass.”
“That’s not what I meant,” the big man snapped.
“No shit. I have no idea.”
Fitzsimmons tilted his head to the left, and his neck crackled like cereal. “Listen,” he snorted. “I have a murder on my hands. I have a victim with lacerations up and down his arms and a serving cart tied to his leg. I have a fish tank full of ripe chum. All the blood sends three sharks into a feeding frenzy, even though this particular species never attacks humans. Until now. I have a nation that watched the whole incident on the evening news, and they’re horrified. They want answers. No one asked for another low-budget sequel to
Jaws.
Least of all me. I have a boss harassing me. Twenty-five years on the force and he’s never seen anything like it. He wants to know who turned your friend’s head into a burger. And everywhere I go, people tell me how great Charlie Kelemen was. ‘A saint. No enemies. Salt of the earth.’ I have zero leads. Count ’em. I have a distraught aquarium staff. They’re still suffering from nightmares about what happened on their watch. The mayor and the governor both want answers. One of our senators is calling for a national hearing. At this rate, it won’t be long before I’m a regular on
Meet the
Fucking
Press
.” Fitzsimmons paused to breathe. “So tell me, Mr. O’Rourke. How was their marriage?” His eyes drilled mine.
It was my turn to snap. “Is she a suspect?” I demanded angrily.
“Who isn’t?”
“Sam Kelemen,” I barked, rushing to her rescue. “We all saw what happened. She was up to her eyeballs with a belly dancer when Charlie appeared in the tank. There must have been five hundred people watching.”
“I’m trying to understand the background,” Fitzsimmons pressed. “So I’ll ask again. Was Mrs. Kelemen involved with anyone else?”
“No way,” I snapped. “Not in a million years. Sam adored Charlie. She’s a mess. And she has no money.”
“No money?” Mummert mumbled.
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?” both officers replied, an unintentional chorus.
“She has money,” I backtracked, “but it’s all tied up in his business. She’s illiquid.”
“Insurance?” Fitzsimmons asked.
“Charlie didn’t believe in it. Most people in my business don’t. Besides, there’s plenty of value in the Kelemen Group.”
“What do you know about the business?”
“Not much. Charlie ran a small fund of funds. I would guess about two hundred million in assets.”
“What’s a fund of funds?” Mummert asked.
I’m never going to get those pancakes.
For twenty minutes more I described Charlie Kelemen’s wealth and his Midas touch. I explained the Kelemen Group’s business, doing my best to avoid the technical stuff like alpha and other measures of performance. Charlie knew every hedgie in town, wined and dined them all. It was the sum total of my knowledge. It seemed like nothing.
When we finally finished “Fund of Funds 101,” Mummert headed for the door. He was anxious to leave. I was anxious to see both officers go but asked, “Is it possible for me to get access to Charlie’s office?”
“What for?” Fitzsimmons replied.
“I’m helping Sam wind down the Kelemen Group. I’d like to look through his files.”
“Won’t happen,” the big officer refused, “not until we tie up this homicide.” Fitzsimmons retrieved a business card from the folds of his jacket and scrawled a 212 number on the back. “Thanks for your help. If you think of anything, give us a call. Just do me a favor, and don’t interfere with our investigation.” Mummert said nothing. The two left. No “good-bye.” All business.
In the empty silence of my apartment, I realized a pattern had formed. Cliff Halek, my friend, my confidant, had started it. At least I trusted him. Kurtz followed. Now it was the police. Everybody was telling me to back off Charlie Kelemen’s affairs. I had not heard so much rejection since my first days of cold-calling eight years ago.
En route to the shower, at last, I noticed the door to Finn’s room was ajar. It always remained shut, a lid on my memories. Summer humidity sometimes sprung the door and released the lingering scents of mother and daughter. In that whiff of an instant my resolve magnified tenfold. Sam Kelemen. Betty and Fred Masters. It was clear what was necessary.
I don’t give a shit who objects.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was seven-thirty Monday morning. I sat at my desk, concentrating hard and nursing a tasteless cup of coffee. Betty’s statement showed her home address in New Paltz and Charlie’s business address on Broadway. Two lines recorded her investment. The first read: “The Kelemen Group Fund of Funds, Series B: $307,931.”
