The Devil’s Daughter, page 16
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Because it’s the same shooter who came for you, isn’t it, Jack?” This is why I trust Bernie. He has no tolerance for the usual games and gets right to the point.
“Probably,” I say. “Where are you with Garrett?”
Rothstein doesn’t answer. Instead he lights an unfiltered Lucky and exhales a stream of cigarette smoke.
“Did somebody chase you off?” I ask.
Bernie doesn’t want to answer that question either, but he tends to get irritated when the department brass gets in the way of him doing his job, so I don’t have to lean on him for more information. The two of us sit there without saying a word for a couple of minutes before Bernie opens up on his own.
He tells me that he paid Garrett a visit at the Beresford, a visit during which he made a show of being especially courteous so that Garrett didn’t clam up and throw him out. Instead, he gently quizzed him about his daughter and asked where he had been the night the Dugans were murdered, as if his questions were just a matter of routine.
Garrett had an airtight alibi for the killings, one which I provided for him, and Burton, his butler, backed it up. As for Lucy? Well, that was a sad story. She ran away from home, he said, and not for the first time. But this time Garrett didn’t hire a private detective to go out and fetch her—an oblique reference to me, I guess. Instead, he decided that Lucy should be left to “shift for herself,” as he inelegantly put it. It was about time she found out just how the real world worked, he said, so he cut her off without a dime, which, given Lucy’s expensive tastes, brought her home before too long. And when Bernie asked as if it was an afterthought whether Lucy was in the habit of having her girlfriends sleep over on school nights, a fairly sly and canny way of finding out about Garrett’s penchant for young girls, he said that Lucy didn’t have many friends and that to be honest, it worried him.
“Did you buy any of it?” I ask because I know that story is bullshit. Garrett didn’t cut her off and make her shift for herself like he was a genuinely concerned parent. If Lucy really was home, that was because her father was holding her there against her will, keeping her close to control her. It’s a hell of a lot more likely the kid is on the loose again, and Garrett’s now desperate to corral her before she exposes him. I’ve been out of town so I don’t have a clue as to where Lucy really is, but I’d lay odds she isn’t in the Beresford.
Bernie snorts because he knows it’s bullshit too and stubs out his cigarette. He says the next morning he got a call from Patrick Flynn, the deputy police commissioner, who was not at all pleased with his foray to the Beresford, no matter how diplomatically he handled it. Flynn wanted to know why Rothstein was bothering somebody like Garrett, somebody not only with friends in high places but an upright citizen who gave generously to the Police Athletic League and several other deserving municipal charities. He said that whatever the man’s relationship was with his daughter, it was none of the department’s business and told Bernie to lay off.
Bernie lied and promised that he would.
“Did Garrett claim Lucy was home while you were there talking to him?”
“That’s the way he made it sound.”
“Did he say anything about her being pregnant?”
“No. Why? Is she?”
“Yeah, and the kicker is that I think Garrett is the father.”
I can tell from Bernie’s reaction that as jaded as he is, he’s having trouble wrapping his mind around this idea. I tell him what Monk told me at dinner in Paris, that Lucy was spotted in Minton’s with an older white guy and that she was pregnant. I leave Monk’s name out of the telling though. Given his history with the cops, there’s no need to involve him, even if it’s only peripherally. When Bernie asks if she wasn’t at home, where do I think Lucy was, I tell him that I don’t know and that I don’t know the name of the older guy she was with in Minton’s either. I don’t know who killed the Dugans or Muffy Palmer, and I don’t know whether the killer is still gunning for me.
One thing I do know, though, is that Louis Garrett is scared. He wouldn’t have used his clout to try to back off Bernie if he wasn’t. But exactly what is frightening him? Exposure—his own daughter exposing him, more precisely.
Lucy is his one real vulnerability. She’s not only unpredictable but gets her kicks out of seeing him sweat. She knows about his girls and what he does to them. And if I’m right and her baby really is his, that alone is enough to send Garrett to jail. He has to shut her up and keep her shut up, but he isn’t a psychopath. Despite the danger she poses to him, Lucy is his own flesh and blood, and Garrett’s not going to have her hurt, much less have her killed—at least I don’t think so. But it does explain why he committed her to the Hayden Institute. His wife has been safely locked away there for years. Why not his daughter?
“It’s all about payback,” I say to Bernie. That must be Lucy’s motive in all this.
“Paying back her father for the abuse?”
“Garrett’s screwed with her half her life, and now she’s screwing him back.”
“Which is pretty sick, if you ask me.”
“Listen, here’s the way we ought to play it.” But Bernie shoots me a look, cutting me off before I can finish the thought.
“We? How do you get to ‘we’? No offense, Jack, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re still working the wrong side of the street. You’ve shot and killed at least three guys that I know about, and where I come from, that makes you one of the bad guys. The only thing that makes me think you aren’t scum, I mean, besides the famous girlfriend, is that Jimmy Mullen wants you dead. That SOB is so deep in Garrett’s pocket that wanting you out of the way almost makes me believe you’re on the level. But I don’t trust you. You play fast and loose with the truth and the law like neither of them matters, and I don’t like that one bit.”
“Fair enough, Bernie, but I don’t see that you have much of a choice. You have to trust me. The department doesn’t have your back, neither does Mullen. And Garrett is swinging his dick around like the big shot that he is. The only way to take him down is through his daughter, and the only way to get to Lucy is through me.”
Rothstein may not like me or the way I operate, but he knows I’m right. And I’m thinking about telling him that I might not be as corrupt as he thinks, that having a reputation as a scumbag is good for business, but I don’t want to push my luck.
“Okay,” Bernie says, as if it’s wildly against his better judgment. “You find the girl, but if you fuck with me, Jack, if you lie or connive or play both ends against the middle, I’ll hand you over to Mullen and look the other way while he does whatever he wants with you. Is that clear?”
When I tell him it is and promise to be a good boy, Bernie says he expects me to check in with him every twenty-four hours or our deal is off. Then he shakes his head like he’s just made the worst mistake of his life, gets to his feet, and walks away.
CHAPTER 31
When I get back to the Plaza, V isn’t there. My heart rattles around in my chest until I spot the note she left for me. In it, she says that she has gone to meet a friend, but not to worry. She’s in disguise, she says, and nobody is going to recognize her. I’m not at all sure being “in disguise” means the same thing to V as it does to me. She probably thinks walking around incognito is only a matter of wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a Gucci scarf wrapped over her head and tied under her chin.
But there’s nothing I can do about that now. Now I have to figure out how to track down Lucy Garrett and find out who killed the Dugans and Muffy Palmer before whoever that is gets to V and me.
I’m going to start with Muffy’s mother, Daphne. Being told that her daughter has been brutally murdered must have been devastating, and recovering from that terrible news nearly impossible. I’m going to have to be as gentle as I can.
I write Daphne a note on a sheet of V’s sky-blue stationery telling her how sorry I am and saying that I know this must be a terrible time, but if she can spare me a few minutes, it might help me find Muffy’s killer. I sign my name at the bottom, scribble down the Plaza’s phone number, and rather than mailing the note, I hand it to the doorman at 998 Fifth and ask him to pass it along.
I wait a couple of days for a response, and when none comes, I walk over to the Met, sit down on the museum steps, and wait for Daphne to come out of her building, which is across the street. When she finally does, walking briskly down the sidewalk as if she’s in a hurry, I get up and follow. She crosses Fifth Avenue, then walks across town until she reaches La Côte Basque on East Fifty-Fifth Street, where the maître d’ greets her like an old friend and seats her at a table with three other stylish young matrons. La Côte is famous for catering to the well-to-do, and the maître d’ is renowned for being an officious prick.
I walk into the restaurant like I’ve eaten there a hundred times before, wave to nobody in particular, and make a beeline for Daphne’s table. But the maître d’ makes for a pleb the instant he sees me and quickly moves to block my path.
“Is there something I can do for you?” he asks like the supercilious functionary that he is, and when I tell him I’m meeting Daphne Palmer for lunch, he flat out doesn’t believe me.
When he says, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave, sir,” I have a few choices. I could try to slip the guy some cash to look the other way, but I have all of eleven dollars in my pocket and that won’t be nearly enough. I could try to bull my way past him, but that’s bound to cause a ruckus, and an embarrassed Daphne Palmer isn’t going to give me the time of day. Or I could just show the guy my gun. Obviously, there’s a not-so-implied threat in that, but if I tell him I’m a cop, a detective working undercover, and flash the fake NYPD ID I carry around, he might just find the idea thrilling enough to let me in.
I’m in luck. He buys this story but has a discreet word in my ear, asking me to keep his cooperation quiet because he has a reputation to maintain. His French accent suddenly disappears, replaced by a subtle but distinctly Bronx one, which probably explains why I’m getting away with this stunt.
I walk over to Daphne’s table, but when I politely ask, “Excuse me, ladies, I wonder if I might have a word with Mrs. Palmer in private?” they all look at me like I’ve just descended from another planet. I figure that, given the slightly horrified looks on their faces, they might stand up and walk out, but they high-hat me instead and just stare.
Muffy’s mother pretends not to know me. When I gently remind her of who I am and where we met, she snorts, “I don’t remember that at all,” and says that if I want to talk to her privately, I should make an appointment through her attorney.
I don’t mind the brush-off, in fact I half-expected it, but still there’s something about Daphne’s attitude that seems odd. I’m not so memorable that it’s impossible the woman doesn’t recognize me, but what strikes me as off is that Daphne doesn’t seem particularly upset. Her sixteen-year-old daughter has just been shot dead for no apparent reason and the police don’t have a clue as to who did it or why, but she’s carrying on with her life as if it didn’t happen.
“I don’t like to intrude like this,” I say, “but I’m trying to find out who killed Muffy, and I really think you ought to talk to me.” I’m sure that’s going to get the woman’s attention, but I’m wrong. Maybe she’s putting on a brave face for the benefit of her friends, but her smug attitude makes that seem unlikely, so I lean on her. “Mrs. Palmer, somebody murdered your daughter and I’m sure you want to find out who it was. If you could just spare me a minute or two, I can help you with that.”
Daphne doesn’t say anything. Instead, ignoring me altogether, she primly refolds her napkin, returns it to her lap, and takes a sip from the glass of pinot she ordered with her lunch.
Then without actually looking at me, she says, “You wrote me that note, didn’t you?” When I tell her that I did, she finally turns, looks me square in the eye, and says, “I don’t know who you are or why they let you in here, but my poor Muffy’s death is absolutely none of your business, and if you don’t stop bothering me, I’ll have the maître d’ call the police.”
I start to say, “Mrs. Palmer, I’m not looking for trouble—” but before I can even get that out of my mouth, Daphne raises her hand above her head, and snapping her fingers, calls out, “Phillipe!”
The guy’s real name is probably Sal, but whatever it is, I don’t want to get him in hot water, so when “Phillipe” approaches the table, I give him the high sign and move off before he’s forced to throw me out.
Getting Daphne Palmer alone is going to be tricky. I’m going to have to track her movements and find a moment when I can box her in and make her talk. It comes as no surprise that her life is full in a petty and superficial way. She doesn’t work. I suspect Daphne has never worked a day in her life, but she doesn’t spend her time sitting alone in her luxury apartment either. She does sleep in most mornings though.
Cedella, the Palmers’ maid, sees Muffy’s ten-year-old brother off to school before Daphne gets out of bed. Daphne considers Jamaican-born Cedella a member of the family, which isn’t the way Cedella sees it, but the pay is good, so she isn’t about to disabuse her employer of that notion.
After Daphne’s breakfast, which usually consists of Melba toast and a cup of black coffee, she dresses smartly and is driven over to the West Side, where five days a week she sees Dr. Leon Katz, her analyst, in his town house on West Sixty-Fifth Street. I can’t imagine what the two of them have to talk about, but Daphne always has a spring in her step when she leaves his office.
The rest of her week is filled with hairdresser appointments, games of bridge and canasta, and lunch at La Côte, or the Colony, or Twenty-One with her girlfriends. In the evenings, there might be dinner with her husband, Harold, at Le Pavillon or someplace like it, then on to the theater or, on special occasions, the opera—that’s if Harold isn’t visiting his mistress in the apartment he keeps for her near the Museum of Natural History.
I’m not sure whether Daphne knows about her husband’s longtime girlfriend—he’s been keeping her in that apartment for more than a decade—or whether she’s just willfully blind. Whatever the case, there are at least a couple of nights each week when Harold doesn’t bother coming home, which probably explains why he and Daphne sleep in separate bedrooms. I manage to find out all of this because rich people aren’t very good at keeping secrets, and neither are their help.
At precisely nine o’clock each night, Cedella takes the family schnauzer, Cookie, for a walk before riding the train home to Harlem. She and I have already come to an arrangement. I’ve slipped her a couple hundred bucks, and after assuring her I mean Daphne no harm, she gives me the keys to the apartment’s back door and to the building’s service entrance.
The rest is easy. I know Harold is off with his mistress, so I sneak in and take the freight elevator up to the apartment. Cedella tells me that Daphne doses herself with phenobarbital before going to bed every night, then watches Gunsmoke or whatever is playing on the Million Dollar Movie before turning out the light. I’m hoping the woman is so sedated that she won’t have a heart attack when I suddenly appear, and that almost works.
In her barbiturate-induced haze, Daphne doesn’t seem to notice that I’m there until I loudly clear my throat. Then much to my surprise, rather than screaming or demanding to know what I’m doing in her bedroom, she reaches under her pillow, produces a .38 Ruger, and aims it directly at my crotch.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” she says, cocking her gun, and I stifle the impulse to ask, What was me? because when a woman is about to shoot your balls off, it’s not smart to play dumb.
“I didn’t kill Muffy, if that’s what you mean.”
“I could shoot you right where you stand, claim self-defense, and the police won’t even bother arresting me.”
“You could, Mrs. Palmer, but then Muffy’s killer will still be running around loose, won’t he?” My logic is inescapable, and apparently Daphne realizes it—that or she’s simply decided that shooting me is more trouble than I’m worth—and she lowers her gun.
“Look,” she says, switching on a bedside lamp, “why don’t you just ask me whatever it is you’re so anxious to know and then get the hell out of here before I really do call the police?”
“Did Muffy ever sleep over at Lucy Garrett’s apartment?”
“No, and that wretched girl never spent the night here either. She may have lied to her father and said that she did, but she didn’t. She did stop by a few times and try to lure Muffy into joining in on one of her tawdry sexcapades, but I wouldn’t allow it.”
“How do you know about those?”
“Because the girl showed up here dressed like a whore. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what she was up to.”
“But Muffy never went with her?”
“I told you. I would not permit it.”
When I was Muffy Palmer’s age, I regularly slipped out of our apartment and spent the night listening to music in jazz clubs that shouldn’t have let me in the door. When I met Muffy, she came off as naive and forlorn, but I don’t believe for a second that a girl like Lucy Garrett couldn’t entice her into defying her mother and sneaking out in the middle of the night. She must have jumped at the chance to go on an adventure with somebody like Lucy, but where did they go and what did they do when they got there?
“Who were Muffy’s other friends? I mean, besides the Garrett girl. She must have had a best friend. Who was that?”
“There was no best friend,” Daphne says. “Muffy wasn’t very popular. She was sweet and eager to please, but I wouldn’t have called her pretty or socially graceful. I tried to get her to do something about the way she looked and dressed, but Muffy was something of a mouse, I’m sorry to say.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say Daphne Palmer is just as happy to be rid of Muffy. She wouldn’t be the first Fifth Avenue matron to be disappointed in her daughter. Obviously, Muffy lived in Daphne’s shadow, and the first time we met, she browbeat the kid almost to tears. She must have had high hopes of glittering coming-out parties, of cotillions and debutante balls. It wasn’t Muffy’s fault that she didn’t live up to her mother’s expectations, but I’ll wager Daphne blamed her for it anyway.
