William Diehl - Seven ways to die

“But it was a woman?”

Warren nodded.

“How can you be sure?”

“I thought you were just interested in him?”

Ansa said, “She could back up his alibi. That way you, the club, nobody else gets involved.”

“You said nobody would get involved. That’s what you said.”

“And you won’t,” Ryan said. “When did you see her?”

“It was like five minutes after he went in. Around 12:05. The strobe lights were on, people were getting into it. I saw the front light go off and she came out. But I was down at the other end of the bar.”

“And he was still in there?”

Warren nodded. “He left by the back at 12:20.”

“What did she look like, Warren?”

“Oh, I…you know, it was a jungle. Dark, strobe lights flashing, I just got a glimpse of her. There were two women going at it on the sofa and a guy doing one of the women and she stopped for a second or two to watch and then she looked up and saw me looking and I looked back down at my book real fast and then she was gone.”

“What do you remember about her, Warren?” Ryan asked. “Anything at all?”

“Red dress. Very classy. Spaghetti straps. A designer dress but I can’t tell you for sure. All the women in the place dress like a million bucks. That’s part of it.”

“How tall was she?”

“Five-five, five-six. Depends on the shoes. I couldn’t see her feet but she was probably wearing spike Pradas with that outfit.”

“How about her face? Hair?” Ryan pressed him.

“I have no idea.”

“Just a hint, Warren.”

“She was wearing a head mask. One of those kind that drapes down to the shoulders, covered her head and neck.”

“What kind of mask?”

Warren thought for a minute and said, “Bela Lugosi.”

“Bela who?”

“Lugosi. Pointy, bloody teeth. Weird eyes. Dracula.”

“Who is she?” Cody mused aloud, staring at the crime scene photo on the big board. “Why did they meet? Is she the killer?”

“Hard to say, Captain,” Ryan said. “According to this kid, Warren, nobody knows nothin’. The members have numbers. It’s all cash. They wear masks. He isn’t even sure how many members there are but Handley’s was 103.”

“Could be a couple of hundred people involved,” DeMarco added.

“So?”

“That’s a lot of people.”

“Ever heard of Eddie Zigo?” Cody asked.

“Everybody knows Eddie bagged the Son of Sam.”

“The taskforce knew the Son of Sam was using a. 44 caliber Bull revolver. They zeroed the search down to a hundred. 44 Bulls in Brooklyn. They tracked them down one by one. And Zigo made the case with a. 44 Bull in Berkowitz’ car. Get the point?”

There was a pause and then Ryan said, “Yeah, but even if we got a list, Cap, the woman was Handley’s guest. Her name won’t be on it.”

“Handley sure won’t be giving her up,” Annie Rothschild muttered.

Cody stared at her for a moment. He shook his head and sighed.

“So we’re back to square one.” He looked around the room. “Anybody?”

“Our best guess is that Handley met her at the club and gave her two keys,” Ansa offered. “One for the front door, the other to his apartment.”

“Two people were in that apartment, Handley and his killer,” Cody said. “Either she killed him or passed the keys to somebody who did.”

Cody nodded. “Amelie Cluett says Handley was straight. If she’s correct then Androg is the lady in red. Handley wouldn’t have submitted to a guy.”

“Unless…” Si said.

“Unless…?”

“Unless part of the deal was that Handley blindfolded himself when he got undressed. Maybe he and the killer never spoke when he got home. Maybe that was part of the intrigue. Maybe Vampira was a Judas goat.”

“Part of the lure,” Annie finished the thought. “Handley didn’t know for sure who was seducing him. It’s perverse enough to fit.”

“Either way, she’s involved,” Cody said. “We can’t rule her out.”

“Unless she thought it was just part of a play,” Kate replied. “The whole sex club thing is quirky as hell. Maybe she didn’t know what the endgame was.”

“You’re thinking like a prosecutor,” Si said.

“That’s my job.”

The Filipina housekeeper answered the doorbell and ushered Bergman into the Beekman Place apartment. She led him down a short hallway to a large living room, unlit except for a soft light over a wet bar in one corner and the city lights streaming through the windows.

“Your guest is here, Mister Nevins,” the housekeeper said.

“Thank you, Maria,” he answered and she left Bergman standing at the entrance to the darkened room.

Louis Nevins was standing with his back to him, one hand in his pants pocket, the other swirling the ice in an empty old fashioned glass. Nevins was staring through a massive corner window, the panorama of South Manhattan spread out before him. The United Nations tower framed one side of the view, and to its right, far beyond it, were the gently arched spires of the Brooklyn Bridge, and still farther a speck of light marking the lady in the bay.

“No other city like it in the world,” Nevins said, without turning. “First time I came here I cried like a baby when we drove out of the Holland Tunnel. I expected to see windmills and people in wooden shoes. What did I know? A six-year-old kid from Haddonfield, N.J. But then dad drove over to Times Square and I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the grandest sight I’d ever seen.”

He turned to face Bergman. “I’ve been a New Yorker ever since. And today? Today is the saddest day of all the years I’ve lived here.”

“I’m sorry,” Bergman said without emotion. “Thank you for seeing me.” He offered his hand and they shook.

Nevins was tall, trim, in good shape for a man in his sixties. He was wearing rumpled brown slacks, a gray sweatshirt and expensive loafers. No socks. Cosmetic surgery had stretched the age wrinkles from his face and his thinning, gray hair was combed sideways to cover up a bald spot. On a better day he could have passed for a man in his early fifties but the whites of his swollen, brown eyes were blood-streaked and his voice, forced reed-thin with grief, betrayed his true age.

“Have a seat. You look young for a detective. How about a drink?” Nevins ran the words together into a single sentence as he walked past Bergman toward the wet bar in the corner of the handsomely furnished room.

“Thanks, but I’m on the clock,” Bergman said.

“Going to make me drink alone? How about some fruit juice? We’ve got all flavors. My companion doesn’t drink.”

“Apple juice?”

“Fine.”

Bergman sat down in a large over-stuffed chair beside a wide, round glass table with black iron legs that curved out from a ring under its center.

“Know how many homicides have been committed this year?” Nevins asked as he poured the drinks.

“Four hundred and seventy-two so far,” Bergman replied. “Eight unrelated killings in one day last July. The oldest victim was a ninety-three year old woman shot in a holdup. The youngest killer was a nine-year-old girl who stabbed her best friend in a fight over a jump rope.”

The glass of apple juice made a soft clink when Nevins put it down in front of Bergman. Nevins pulled up another chair and sat next to him.

“Statistics, Inspector Bergman. Six months from now Raymond will be just another statistic. That’s one reason I’m sad. I’m sad because the only time I will ever see his beautiful face again will be in a coffin. I’m sad because he was the best at what he did, for which I can assume some responsibility. And I’m sad because I loved him like the son I never had. I’m sad because he thought of me as the father he never had.”