The Morning Show Murders, page 23
Could the F have been Felix? Then what was I to make of OC? There’d been a television show called The OC. About Orange County in Southern California, I thought. Hadn’t one or more of the actors dropped by our show? As everyone kept telling me, Rudy had not only lived TV, he’d loved it. Had he been planning to check for some connection between Felix and that show? Or maybe he thought Felix was born in the real Orange County. Or maybe the F didn’t stand for Felix at all.
“Ahem.”
Cassandra was standing in the doorway. “I just got the third degree from Little Miss Bollywood in your office,” she said. “What happened to Andrew?”
Andrew. A.W. to the world, but Andrew to Cassandra.
“He’s off-duty. You’re here a little early for a no-lunch day, aren’t you?”
“I was up. I figured I might as well . . .”
“. . . have breakfast with Andrew?”
“I was just . . . never mind.”
“You blushing?” I asked.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not!” she said, storming off down the hall.
How juvenile. To prove I was above that kind of childish behavior, I called out after her. “Cassandra and Andrew sittin’ in a tree . . . K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . .”
In response, one of Cassandra’s shoes came sailing back in my direction, just missing my head. She could’ve gone after our last President with an arm like that.
“Gonna be hard, walking around on one shoe!!”
It was nearing eleven a.m. on what was starting out to be the longest day of my life. I’ve never been very good at waiting, especially for a phone to ring. When it finally does, it’s never the person you want.
I went to the office to do busywork. Since Bettina was still using my desk, that consisted of straightening picture frames, gathering newspapers and tossing them, collecting scattered magazines into piles, and putting books back on their shelves.
“Did you want to sit here?” Bettina finally asked, after I’d opened the desk drawer on her left to put away a bunch of business cards I’d collected from the various shelves.
“Not really,” I said.
That’s when I noticed the stack of Rudy’s DVDs still in the drawer. I wondered how late Melody and her roommate slept in on a Sunday morning.
CHAPTER 46
“Who is this Melody Moon?” Bettina asked as she parked her hybrid in front of Melody’s apartment building.
“A friend. I’ll just run in, drop these off, and come right out.”
“These” were the Rudy DVDs.
“I’m coming in, too,” Bettina said.
“It’ll go quicker if you don’t, and you might get a ticket,” I said, leaving the car before she could argue about it.
Melody answered the buzzer wearing tan slacks, a bright-red sweater with silvery dots circling the neck and wrists, and a puzzled expression.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning,” I said, holding the DVDs behind my back.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Rita and I were just getting ready for a drive to Sag Harbor.”
“I won’t keep you, then,” I said, bringing the disks around and handing them to her. “I just dropped by to give you these.”
“Ohmigod,” she said, “Rudy’s shows. Come in, please, chef. Have a cup of coffee.”
She opened the door wide and I saw Rita Margolis perched on the maroon pressed cardboard sofa, glaring at me, a cup of something in one hand. She was dressed in white slacks and a matching white jacket over an orange T-shirt with a comic character I didn’t recognize at its center. A little winged man smoking a cigar and wearing a brown porkpie hat and a brown suit.
“Hi, chef,” she said. “Get those paint stains off your car yet?”
“Paint stains?” I repeated stupidly.
“I’ve seen the picture on the Internet,” she said. “I never would have guessed you for a run-and-gunner.”
“I’m not,” I said.
“Well, the Cheetah sure is. I was wondering what she was up to, sitting parked in that Hummer at the museum. I mean, the superheroes were supposed to be inside.”
“You got a good look at the Cheetah?” I said.
“I . . .” Rita paused, distracted by something behind me.
Bettina. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Billy’s . . . friend.”
“Please come in,” Melody said, ever the perfect hostess. “I was getting Billy a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”
“We won’t have time,” Bettina said. “I got the call, Billy.”
“Just a minute,” I said, turning back to Rita.
“This the Cheetah?” Rita asked. “I thought she was taller.”
“You think the Cheetah was a woman?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Don’t you know who it was?”
“Billy,” Bettina said, “we’re wanted.”
“Right,” I said, keeping my eyes on Rita. “No. I don’t know who was wearing that costume.”
“Weird. Fact is, there was something weird about the costume, too. I’m not sure what. I’m not the world’s greatest Cheetah fan, like the boys at the museum. But there was definitely something off.”
“Like what?”
“I’d have to check the original art.”
“Would you?”
“We have to go, Billy,” Bettina said.
“It’s very important,” I said to Rita.
I must have gotten the point across, because she said, “They have some art at the museum. I’ll check it out when I’m there. Call me tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We’ve got to run.”
“It was sweet of you to bring the DVDs,” Melody said. “How much do I—”
“No, they’re gifts,” I said. “My pleasure.”
“Come on, Billy.” Bettina grabbed my arm and almost dragged me from the room.
“You were rude up there,” I said to Bettina once we were back in her Camry.
“Really,” she said, zipping through the Sunday-morning traffic. “Tattooed people make me uncomfortable. And besides, she’s much too young for you. Both of them are.”
“Rita saw Felix,” I said.
“Oh,” Bettina said. “The figure in costume you were talking about?”
“If she and my driver are correct, and I suspect they are, Felix is a woman.”
“That might explain why she has been so successful,” Bettina said.
“And as for the ladies being too young for me,” I said, “I believe you’re only as young as the woman you feel.”
“All you old men believe that,” she replied.
CHAPTER 47
The assembly in the conference room included those who’d been there earlier—Gretchen, the commander, Trina, and Lee—and the commander’s guru Marvin in his familiar warm-up suit and cap. A wardrobe that simplified must make getting dressed in the morning a breeze.
We walked in on the heels of another newcomer, a short, male fireplug in a conservative three-piece suit named Ralph Whitman, the Di Voss Company’s CFO. Judging by his sour expression, he’d already been apprised of the kidnapper’s demands. “Let’s get on with this,” Whitman said, taking a seat next to Lee, the one I’d been heading for.
I settled for an empty chair beside Trina. Bettina remained standing near the door, as if guarding us from intruders.
The new video had been sent at eleven-nineteen a.m., not from my office computer—which had been under the scrutiny of InterTec—but from a display laptop at a local electronics store. Another agent had been dispatched to that location to see if any of the floor salespeople had noticed anyone using their machines. If my experience with electronics-store employees was any indication, they wouldn’t even have noticed if the building had been on fire.
The video began to play on the big screen.
Again Gin was featured, blinking into a harsh light while standing in front of the mottled wall, looking even colder than before. The difference this time was that the city had awakened. There were background noises—the low rumble of traffic, a church bell gonging, and a couple of other distinctive sounds, including circus music.
Gin seemed oblivious to the city sounds as she read from a sheet of paper, informing us that “‘the fifteen million dollars should be wi-ayd to account number S325469554 at Bank Austria Cayman Islands at any time between the present and precisely noon on Tuesday.
“‘At noontime, assumin’ the transfer has been made without incident, Bill Blessin’ will be notified, via his cellular phone, of the address where he can find Ted Parkhurst and mahself. He is to travel alone. We will be alive and well, merely bound and gagged.’”
She looked directly into the camera. “An’, Billy, if you’re watching this, please hurry, ’cause it’s cold enough heah to freeze champagne.”
The back of a large figure suddenly entered the frame, its gloved hand lashing out to slap Gin across the face. “Say only what is written,” the odd mechanical voice ordered.
Alone on camera again, mouth red with blood trickling from one corner, Gin glanced at the paper in her hand with moist, frightened eyes. She read in a halting voice, “‘S-should you involve police awh FBI, awh should you fail to follah these instructions in any way, ouah captors will be forced to k-k-kill Ted and mahself.’”
The screen went to blue, then black.
“Will there be any problem wiring them the money?” the commander asked Whitman.
“Wiring the money is not the problem,” Whitman answered. “Getting the money back from Gibraltar is the problem. Insurance companies tend to balk when they find out you refused to notify the FBI or even local law enforcement. According to the security people you hired”—he pointed to Lee—“I can’t even call Gibraltar’s CEO to get a reading on it.”
“We can worry about the insurance claim after the fact,” the commander said. “Right, Marv?”
Marvin raised both hands, palms up, indicating two plates of a scale. “Money or people’s lives?” he said, moving his hands up and down. “You can always get more money.”
“If the kidnapper is as dangerous as everyone seems to think,” Whitman pointed out glumly, “there’s no reason to believe that money will make any difference to him.”
“We are wiring the money, Ralph,” the commander said with a finality that shut the CFO up like a clam.
“Did anyone hear the background noises?” I asked. “Not just the traffic, I mean.”
“The church bells,” Gretchen said.
“Dogs barking,” Marv said. “Sounded like a whole pack.”
“What was that music?” asked the commander.
“I can’t begin to count the times I ran behind the source of that music waving a quarter,” I said. “The Mister Softee soft-serve ice-cream truck.”
“I’ll get someone to find out the morning routes,” Lee said, “as well as the addresses of kennels and dog parks. Perhaps we will discover an intersection.”
The commander stood up. “Thanks to each of you for your cooperation. And thank you, daughter, for the presentation.”
As everyone headed for the door, I stopped Trina. “Could you ask someone to put the footage Gabe Farris took at the superhero exhibit on a disk for me?”
She gave me a half-smile. “Working on your talent reel, Billy?”
“Never know when you’re going to need one,” I said.
Lee was standing with Bettina at the door, both of them watching me approach.
“What was that about?” Lee asked, pointing her lovely chin at the departing Trina.
“Shop talk,” I said.
“We should have some of that right now,” she said. “I’m sure Bettina will excuse us.”
“Of course,” Bettina said, and left us alone in the room with Gretchen. We waited while she powered down her computer, snapped its lid shut, and, giving us a curt nod, departed.
“I have a long list of things to do regarding Mr. Aharon’s arrival,” Lee said, “but if you so desire, I will tell A.W. to expect to spend the night in his own bed.”
“I so desire,” I said.
“At about ten?”
“Or even earlier,” I said. “I’ve got to be on the set at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“I’ll make it nine,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel hurried.”
Then, in a sudden display of compartmental dexterity, she lost her sexy smile and it was back to business. “You are prepared to go through with the plan on Tuesday?”
“Sure. But I’m a little curious why Felix wants me to come alone.”
“You won’t be alone,” she said. “I’ll make sure of that.”
“There’s something else I’d like you to do. Treat Trina Lomax to one of your famous InterTec background checks.”
“Why?”
“Earlier today, when you asked who’d be interviewing Aharon if Gin weren’t available, she didn’t even have to think twice,” I said. “Lance was the obvious second choice, but Trina didn’t even give him a moment’s consideration. She had the answer on the tip of her tongue, almost as if she’d known for some time Gin wouldn’t be free.”
“As fond as I am of your devious mind, chef dear, I think Ms. Lomax was simply establishing a backup plan. From what I’ve seen of Lance, I can understand her decision to do the job herself.”
“Maybe. But why are they holding Gin until Tuesday afternoon? It’d be much more efficient and less risky to close the deal today or tomorrow. Why wait, if not to keep Gin off the show? What’s scheduled for the show? Let’s see. Hmmmm. Isn’t there an appearance by a controversial guy some people would like to see dead?”
“I’ll get that background done at once,” Lee said.
“Make sure it includes the INN assignments she’s had over the past couple of years. I know that she was in the same locations as some of Felix’s kills. It would help to know if she was nearby for all of them.”
“You’re saying Trina could be Felix?”
“Why not?”
“Felix—a woman? You are a wonder. Whatever gave you that idea?”
As much as I would have liked to tell Lee about Joe and Rita Margolis both claiming the figure in the Cheetah outfit was feminine, I didn’t want to drop any names on Lee. I didn’t want her or her minions bothering Rita or Joe, or dragging them into this mess.
“Everybody knows you females are deadlier than us males,” I replied.
“Don’t you forget it, Mister Softee,” she said, giving my face a none-too-gentle pat.
CHAPTER 48
“Pull up over there,” I said to Bettina, pointing to a section of empty curb on Central Park South.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I thought you wanted to get back to the Bistro,” she said, maneuvering the hybrid into the parking space.
“Cassandra’s on duty,” I said. “Could you use that phone gadget of yours to Google dog parks and kennels in the city?”
Instead of replying, she took out her phone and began tapping at it.
I looked past her to a couple of horse-drawn carriages clopping along to the park. It was a nice sunny Sunday. Great day for a carriage ride. Or jogging in the park. Or strolling along. Or thinking about absent kidnapped friends.
“Google says there are over four thousand kennels in New York City.”
“That may be more than we can handle today,” I said. “Let’s limit our search to Manhattan. The sections of the city near water.”
“Why water?” Bettina asked.
“Gin mentioned champagne. I assume she was telling us she’s in a wine cellar. An old wine cellar, judging by the wall behind her, and one that’s permanently cold and damp. A lot of the city’s old mansions that were constructed near water had wine cellars dug deep to take advantage of the natural cooling.”
The limitations left us with eightysomething dog hostels.
We spent a little under an hour driving to the first twenty locations. Then we stopped for food, or what they pretended was food at a Bettina choice, Café Carrot on the Upper West Side. Another hour to cruise the second twenty canine conclaves, and for my stomach to digest roasted seitan, grilled onions, and soy cheese. We were in the beginning of the third group of listings when I asked her to park the car again.
To our right was the Dawn of the Dog Hotel and Spa, where a collection of overpampered pups was resting quietly in a gated pen where once a lovely lawn and garden grew.
“Well?” Bettina said. “We have dogs, but they make no noise. So?”
I looked at my watch. “Let’s wait a bit.”
“Is there something special about these dogs?”
“To paraphrase the great Sherlock Holmes,” I said, “the thing that makes them special is that they are not special.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Wait for it . . . wait . . . right . . . about . . . now.”
Church bells began to ring in the hour. Could have been St. Bartholomew’s or St. Peter’s Lutheran over on Lex. The dogs were now singing along at full bark.
“Two out of three on our city-sounds list,” I said.
“But I still don’t know why you thought—”
“At the end of the block,” I said. “The abandoned stone-and-brick monstrosity we drove past.”
She looked back. “Chain fence,” she said. “Three-story with boarded windows. Totally overgrown with bushes and vines. What about it?”
“It’s the Vosburgh mansion,” I said. “A classic city eyesore. Built back at the tail end of the nineteenth century by an old crook named Joe Vosburgh, who still holds the record for the number of times he sold the Brooklyn Bridge. The mansion cost nearly half a million dollars, which was a whole lot of ill-gotten loot back in those days.”
“I appreciate the history lesson,” Bettina said. “Is there a point to it?”
“You tell me. A year ago, Gin and I did a segment covering more than a dozen of the city’s old mansions that are so tied up in legal red tape they just sit there gathering greenery gone wild and dust and rodents. The Vosburgh was on our list. The thing that added to its uniqueness is that the old con artist spent a hunk of that half-million digging a double cellar so deep in the ground that because of the proximity of the East River, the temperature was a natural forty-five degrees. That’s where he kept a gazillion bottles of French champagne that he bought when he saw that Prohibition was soon to become the law of the land. While everybody else was swilling bathtub rotgut, Vosburgh’s friends and clients were enjoying vin extraordinaire.”
