In the Midst of Death

Page 6

A guard opened his door and locked me in with him. We looked each other over without saying anything until the guard was presumably out of earshot. Then he said, "Jesus, you came."
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but I didn't know whether to believe you or not. When you take a look around and realize you're locked up in a jail cell, that you're a prisoner, that something you never believed could happen to you is actually happening, shit, Matt, you don't know what to believe anymore about anything." He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to me. I shook my head. He lit himself a cigarette with the gold lighter, then weighed the lighter in his hand. "They let me hang onto this," he said. "That surprised me. I didn't think they let you have a lighter or matches."
"Maybe they trust you."
"Oh, sure." He gestured to the bed. "I'd say take a chair but they didn't give me one. You're welcome to the bed. Of course there's a good chance there are little creatures living in it."
"I'm comfortable standing."
"Yeah, so am I. It's going to be a real picnic, sleeping in that bed tonight. Why couldn't the fuckers at least give me a chair to sit on? You know, they took my tie."
"I guess that's standard procedure."
"No question. I had an advantage, you know. The minute I walked in the door I knew I was going to wind up in a cell. At the time I didn't know anything about Portia, that she was there, that she was dead, anything. But as soon as I saw them I knew I was going to be arrested because of the complaint she swore out. Right? So while they're asking me questions I'm taking off my jacket, getting out of my pants, kicking my shoes off. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because they have to let you get dressed. If you're dressed to begin with they can take you that way, but if you're not they have to let you put something on, they can't haul you downtown in your underwear. So they let me get dressed and I picked out a suit with beltless slacks." He opened the jacket to show me. "And a pair of loafers. See?" He hiked a trouser leg to display a navy shoe. The leather looked to be lizard. "I knew they'd want to take my belt and shoelaces. So I picked out clothes that didn't call for a belt or laces."
"But you wore a tie."
He gave me the old grin again. It was the first I'd seen of it this morning. "Damn right I did. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to get out of here. You're gonna help me, Matt. I didn't do it and you'll find a way to prove it, and as much as they'll hate the idea they're gonna have to let me out. And when they do they'll give me back my watch and my wallet, and I'll put my watch on my wrist and my wallet in my pocket. And they'll give me my tie, and I'll get in front of a mirror and take my time getting the knot just right. I might tie it three or four times to get that knot just the way I like it. And then I'll walk out that front door and down those stone steps looking like a million dollars. And that's why I wore that fucking tie."
THE speech probably did him some good. If nothing else it reminded him that he was a class guy, a guy with style, and that was a useful self-image for him to have in a jail cell. He squared his big shoulders and got the whine of self-pity out of his voice, and I took out my notebook and gave him some questions to answer. The answers weren't all that bad, but they didn't do much to get him off the hook.
He had gone out for a sandwich not long after I'd talked to him, say around six-thirty. He'd bought a sandwich and a few bottles of beer at a delicatessen on Grove Street and brought them back to his apartment. Then he sat around listening to the radio and drinking the beer until the phone rang again a little before midnight.
"I figured it was you," he said. "Nobody ever calls me there. The phone's not listed. I figured it was you."
But it was a voice he didn't recognize. A male voice, and it sounded as though it was being purposely disguised. The caller said he could get Portia Carr to change her mind and drop her charges. Broadfield was to go immediately to a bar on Ovington Avenue in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. He was to sit at the bar and drink beer until somebody got in touch with him.
"To get you away from the apartment," I said. "Maybe they were too cute. If you can prove you were at the bar, and if the timing's right- "
"There was no bar, Matt."
"Huh?"
"I shoulda known better than to go in the first place. But I figured what could I lose, right? If someone wants to arrest me and they already know about my apartment, they don't have to get cute like that, right? So I took a subway out to Bay Ridge and I found Ovington Avenue. You know Brooklyn at all?"
"Not very well."
"Neither do I. I found Ovington, and this bar's not where it's supposed to be, so I figured I must of fucked up, and I looked in the Brooklyn Yellow Pages and it's not listed, but I keep scouting around, you know, and I finally give up and head back home. At this point I figured I was being set up for something or other, but I still can't spot the angle. Then I walk into my apartment and there's cops all over the place, and then I find out Portia's in the corner with a sheet over her, and that's why some son of a bitch wanted me chasing my tail in Bay Ridge. But there's no bartender could swear I was there because there was no bar called the High Pocket Lounge. There were a couple other bars I hit while I was there, but I couldn't tell you the names. And it wouldn't prove a thing."
"Maybe one of the bartenders could recognize you."
"And be positive about the time? And even so, it doesn't prove anything, Matt. I took the subway both ways, and the trains ran slow. Say I took a cab to try and set an alibi. Hell, even with the way the trains ran I could have killed Portia in my apartment around eleven-thirty before I even left for Bay Ridge. Except that she wasn't there when I left. Except that I didn't kill her."
"Who did?"
"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? Somebody who wants to see me locked up for murder where I can't slip the shaft to the good old NYPD. Now who would want to see that happen? Who'd have a reason?"
I looked at him for a minute, then let my eyes slide off to the side. I asked him who knew about the apartment.
"Nobody."
"That's crap. Doug Fuhrmann knew- he took me there. I knew. I also knew the phone number because you gave it to me. Did Fuhrmann know the number?"
"I think so. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he did."
"Where did you and Doug get to be such good friends?"
"He interviewed me one time, background for a book he was writing. We got to be good drinking buddies. Why?"
"I just wondered. Who else knew about the apartment? Your wife?"
"Diana? Hell, no. She knew I had to stay over in the city from time to time, but I told her I stayed at hotels. She's the last person I'd tell about the apartment. A man tells his wife he's taking an apartment, it's only gonna mean one thing to her." He grinned again, as abruptly as always. "The funny thing is I took the fucking apartment primarily so I'd have a place to catch a little sleep when I wanted. A place to keep a change of clothes and like that. As far as taking broads to the apartment, I hardly ever did that. They'd generally have a place of their own."
"But you took some women there."
"Now and then. Meet a married woman in a bar, that sort of thing. Most of the time they'd never know my name."
"Who else did you take there that might know your name? Portia Carr?"
He hesitated, which was as good as an answer. "She had a place of her own."
"But you also took her to the place on Barrow Street."
"Just once or twice. But she wouldn't get me out of there and then sneak in and knock herself off, would she?"
I let it go. He tried to think of anybody else who might know about the apartment and he didn't come up with anything. And as far as he knew, only Fuhrmann and I knew that he was hiding out in the apartment.
"But anybody who knew about the apartment could have guessed, Matt. All they had to do was pick up the phone and take a shot at it. And anybody could just find out about the apartment talking to some broad in a bar that I might not even remember. ‘Oh, I'll bet that bastard's hiding out in that apartment of his'- and then somebody else knows about the place."
"Did Prejanian's office know about the apartment?"
"Why the hell should they know?"
"Did you speak to them after Carr brought charges against you?"
He shook his head. "What for? The minute her story hit the papers I ceased to exist for the son of a bitch. No point looking to him for help. All Mr. Clean wants is to be the first Armenian elected governor of the state of New York. He's had his eye on Albany all along. He wouldn't be the first guy to make a trip up the Hudson on the strength of a reputation as a crime fighter."
"I could probably think of one myself."
"I'm not surprised. No, if I got Portia to change her story, Prejanian would be glad enough to see me. Now she'll never change her story and he'll never try to do me any good. Maybe I'da been better off with Hardesty."
"Hardesty?"
"Knox Hardesty. U.S. District Attorney. At least he's federal. He's an ambitious son of a bitch himself, but he might do me more good than Prejanian."
"How does Hardesty come into the picture?"
"He doesn't." He walked over to the narrow bed, sat down on it. He lit another cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. "They let me bring a carton of cigarettes," he said. "I guess if you gotta be in jail it could be worse."
"Why did you mention Hardesty?"
"I thought about going to him. As a matter of fact I sounded him out but he wasn't interested. He's into municipal corruption but only in a political way. Police corruption doesn't interest him."
"So he sent you to Prejanian."
"Are you kidding?" He seemed amazed that I would suggest anything of the sort. "Prejanian's a Republican," he said. "Hardesty's a Democrat. They'd both like to be governor and they might wind up running against each other in a couple of years. You think Hardesty would send anything to Prejanian? Hardesty more or less told me to go home and soak my head. Going to Abner was my idea."
"And you went because you just couldn't stand the corruption another minute."
He looked at me. "That's as good a reason as any," he said levelly.
"If you say so."
"I say so." His nostrils flared. "What difference does it make why I went to Prejanian? He's done with me now. Whoever framed me got just what he wanted. Unless you can find a way to turn it inside out." He was on his feet now, gesturing with the cigarettes. "You have to find out who set me up and how it was done because nothing else really gets me off the hook. I could beat this thing in court, but there would always be a cloud over me. People would just figure I got lucky in court. How many people can you think of who went up on charges for capital crimes that got a lot of heat? And when they got off, you and everybody else takes it for granted they were guilty? They say you don't get away with murder, Matt, but how many names do you know of people you'd swear got away with murder?"