Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“What was his name?” Reardon said.

“I don’t know. He was here with Senator Bailey.”

“Senator who?”

“Bailey. Thomas Bailey.”

“Thank you very much,” Reardon said.

But, of course, both the Senate and the House had adjourned for the holidays sometime last week and even if this had not been a Saturday, the offices on Capitol Hill would have been empty.

As, in fact, they were.

Dead end.

In a strange city.

Reardon got the hell out of it on the next shuttle.

He was back in the squadroom by three-thirty that afternoon, and by four o’clock he had learned that Senator Thomas Bailey was one of the senators from Connecticut, and he had further learned where he lived and what his home phone number was. This last piece of information had come from a man in Albany who used to be a D.A. in New York, and who now worked under Commissioner Condon in the Division of Criminal Justice Services. Albany was a very political town, and Reardon figured it would not hurt to call his old D.A. drinking buddy at home, see if he could give him a lead on the senator. It took him twenty minutes to get back to Reardon.

At a little past four. Reardon dialed the senator’s number in Norwalk, Connecticut. A woman answered the phone. Reardon identified himself as a working New York City detective and asked to speak to the senator, please. Bailey came onto the phone a moment later.

“How can I help you, Detective Reardon?” he asked. His voice sounded cigarette-seared, deep and husky.

“I’m sorry to break in on you this way, Senator...”

“No problem,” Bailey said.

“But I’m investigating a homicide here in New York...”

“Uh-huh.”

“... and I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

“Well, certainly go right ahead.” Bailey said.

“Senator, did you have dinner at a restaurant called Café de la Daine last Sunday night?”

“In Washington, do you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not even sure I was still in Washington last Sunday.”

“The maitre d’ seems to...”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I believe I did have dinner there, yes.”

“Who was with you, Senator?”

“I was alone,” Bailey said.

Reardon hesitated, and then said, “The maitre d’ seems to think there was an Arab with you.”

“An Arab? I have a large Jewish constituency, Mr. Reardon. I do not make a habit of dining in public with Arabs.”

“A man with a beard,” Reardon said. “Wearing a white robe and a white turban. An Arab, Senator.”

“Well...” Bailey said, and hesitated. “Perhaps someone of that description did stop at the table to say hello.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t remember. There are always visiting dignitaries in Wash...”

“Oh, was he a dignitary?” Reardon asked at once.

“Mr. Reardon,” Bailey said, “unless you have something specific in mind...”

“I have a homicide in mind, Senator. That’s about as specific as anything can get. What was the Arab’s name?”

“I didn’t realize I was under oath before a Senate subcommittee.”

“No, sir, you’re not. But I’d hate like hell to have to tell the New York Times that you refused to cooperate in a homicide investigation.”

There was a long silence on the line. At last, Bailey said, “How on earth did you ever make the connection?”

“What connection?” Reardon said.

“Between what happened at La Guardia and me.”

“What?” Reardon said. “What do you mean?”

There was another silence on the line.

“What homicide are you investigating, Mr. Reardon?” Bailey asked. “A man named Ralph D’Annunzio was killed last Monday night at his restaurant in...”

“I don’t know anything about that, I’m sorry.”

“How about a man named Peter Dodge, who was...”

“Never heard of him. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Mr. Reardon, but...”

“Senator, what homicide did you think I...?”

“My wife and I are expecting guests very shortly,” Bailey said. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

“What homicide were you...?”

But the senator had already hung up.

In Arizona, it was two o’clock in the afternoon.

The temperature outside was sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. A bit more reasonable, Olivia thought. Sunlight streamed through the study windows. Her father sat in a wheelchair behind his desk. He looked healthy and alert today, good color in his cheeks, a sparkle in his eyes. A lion closing in for the kill, she thought.

“Has Sotheby’s paid Sarge?” he asked.

“We’re already using the proceeds. Thirteen million was deposited to a discretionary account at Rothstein-Phelps, to cover the Comex purchases. The rest has gone to London and Hong Kong.”

“You say he got something better than thirty-six million?”

“Thirty-six three,” Olivia said.

“Which will pay for the margin on how many contracts?”

“I’m figuring roughly twelve thousand contracts at a margin of three thousand dollars each.”

“Four thousand lots on each exchange?” Andrew asked.

“On average. On the Comex, for example, we’re buying forty- two hundred lots. On the LME...”

“Yes, I get the picture. Any big jumps in the price yet?”

“At Friday’s close, it was a little over six dollars an ounce.”

“Any ripples from the CFTC?”

“Not yet. It doesn’t matter. Daddy. This is all legal and aboveboard.”

“More or less.”

“Well... discounting the dummy corporations abroad, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But we’re completely hidden there, Daddy. And in New York, we’ll tell them whatever they want to know about our Comex purchases. If it comes to that.”

“It may not, Livvie. It may not attract attention.”

“Unless someone is terribly eager.”

“What about that incident in the airport last Sunday night?”

“A group named Order of the Holy Crusade — or some such thing — is claiming responsibility for it.”

“And the other two — the ones I call the ‘accident’ victims — what about them?”

“Accident victims indeed,” Olivia said, smiling. “So far, no connection has been made.”

“Good. It would seem we’re well on our way then, wouldn’t it?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

Andrew nodded, pleased, and reached across the desk for his cup of tea. “By the...”

Reaching for the tea.

“... close Wednesday...”

Hand lifting the cup.

“... we’ll have...”

And suddenly he dropped the teacup.

And sat upright.

And gasped.

His face, almost ruddy an instant earlier, turned suddenly chalk white.

“Oh,” he said, and shuddered.

“Daddy?” she said, alarmed, rushing around the desk to him.

“Oh.” he said again, and toppled from his chair.

She knelt beside him at once, her eyes wide in panic. Over her shoulder, she shouted, “Charles! Come quick! Charles!”

Reardon left the squadroom at a little past six, took a taxi to his hotel, showered and changed his clothes, and then drove uptown to Sandy’s apartment. This time, he took a flashlight from the car. He went up the stairs to the third floor, knocked on the door to apartment 3B, waited, and then knocked again.

“Yes?” Sandy called.

“Sandy,” he said. “It’s me. Bry.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Bry Reardon.”

“Yes... uh... just a second, Bry.”

He waited. He could hear footstep approaching the door. Lock tumblers turning. The door opened a crack, the night chain stopping it. She did not take off the night chain. In the crack of the door, he saw her face, hair tousled, caught glimpses of naked flesh below.