William Diehl - Seven ways to die

“Explain.”

“His father was killed when he was a child. His mother lived in California and died years ago. He had no family, except a sister who also died a few years ago.”

“How’d she die?”

There was an imperceptible pause before he answered. “A tragic accident,” he said. He took a sip of his old fashioned. “So, tell me what really happened to Raymond.”

“He was killed in his library. It wasn’t robbery. And we feel certain he knew his killer.”

“That’s it, that’s all?”

“It’s a case in progress, sir. I’m not at liberty to say anymore. I need to talk to you about Handley. Everything you know.” Bergman took out his notebook and pen.

Nevins leaned back and shook his head slowly as he stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, how many days do you have, detective? Or weeks, I should say. I’ve known this man since he was a sophomore at Princeton. We have recruiters at all the Ivy League schools, all the major firms do. He was called to my attention the day he entered college. I had his dossier from the day he was born. I monitored him through his first year and then I mentored him, groomed him, took him on the floor of the Exchange for the first time, saw his eyes light up watching the big board. He had it all. The fire in his belly, the instinct for the edge, the risk-taking, the focus, the intelligence, he was a natural for the game.”

“And a future son-in-law for Victor Stembler?”

“Of course. That was part of the package.”

“Did he ever fire anybody or damage someone’s career?”

“Not without cause. Raymond couldn’t stand incompetence. But he never did anything with rancor. He let them down softly. Others I know are not that kind.”

“But he liked to win.” It was a question framed as a sentence.

“Of course, whatever the enterprise. If you played racquetball with Raymond you would expect to come away with bruises. But it wasn’t personal. He was a ferocious competitor. Losing was never an option.”

“How about women?”

“His one flaw. He was born with the power gene that validates sex. But to my knowledge, he never conned a woman in his life. He always made it clear up front that it was for the joy of the moment. There were only two viable relationships in his life: the Stembler Company and Linda Stembler. So how exactly did he die, Inspector Bergman?”

“I’m sorry, sir, to have to tell you…His throat was cut.”

Nevins took it like a physical blow. But he took a deep breath and recovered. “I don’t mean to be rude, son, but if our talk is going to continue, put away your notebook. From here on, this conversation is quid pro quo. You ask and I’ll ask. And I promise you, I can keep a secret.” He tapped his forehead. “There are enough secrets in this brain to send half the people on Wall Street up the river.”

Bergman thought for a moment and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see how it goes.”

He put the notebook in his inside breast pocket and clicked off his tape recorder mike at the same time. “Before we start,” Bergman said to Nevins, “let me ask you one thing. Is there an outside chance that maybe, just maybe, Raymond Handley may have experimented sexually with men?”

“That sounds a bit homophobic.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. At this point we’re not sure whether the killer is a male or female.”

Nevins frowned and looked down for a moment. When he looked back he was staring past Bergman, his eyes fixed on some vague spot in a dark corner of the room.

“The first time I ever saw Raymond was in one of those old school restaurants,” he mused. “You know, all teakwood and dark colors. Framed in the sunlight streaming through the window, he looked like a cutout. A beautiful young man in a boat neck sweater, hair slightly mussed. Not a blemish on his skin. Confident brown eyes. For me, it’s an image frozen in time, like a black and white photograph.”

He stopped, drawn back to the present, and looked back at Bergman.

“He was a sophomore at Princeton. We chit-chatted for a while and sometime during lunch I leaned across the table and said, ‘Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?’ And Ray looked at me, laughed, and said, ’Well, Mister Nevins, no man ever has.’ So, it was on the table and off, just like that. He knew I was gay. I knew he wasn’t. I wasn’t serious, of course. It was what we call in the business a ‘clarification question.’ No, Inspector, Raymond loved the ladies. He also knew if he got involved with one, it could jeopardize his career at the firm. So, in college, and ever since, he was a one night stand man.”

“Do any of these names mean anything to you? Trapeze Lady? Tit for Twat? The Sex Circus?”

“Look, New York is full of sex clubs,” Nevins said with a dismissive wave of his arm, “Trapeze Lady performed at the Sex Circus. But it got too public and vice shut it down. Same with the Tit for Twat. Ray went to them once or twice until I warned him off.”

“Does the Staten Island Fairy ring a bell?”

Nevins face drained and became pasty. He was obviously shocked.

“Christ, where did you hear that?”

He got up slowly, his shoulders sagging wearily. He looked at Bergman’s untouched drink, and went back to the bar to fix himself another one.

He tinkered with the fixings and, without looking up said, “Only two people ever heard of the Staten Island Fairy. It was a joke.”

“A joke?”

“That’s right. I have a jousting sense of humor. Once the gay thing was out of the way I said to Ray, ‘From today forth I’m going to teach you the way we do business at Stembler.’ And I laughed and said, ‘The Staten Island Fairy and the Princeton Hunk are going to be partners.’ It put him at ease and he laughed and we shook on it. I lived on Staten Island at the time.”

Bergman, a very cool character under the most extreme circumstances, could not conceal his surprise. Nevins returned to the table, his face etched with sadness and dropped with a sigh into his chair, his face troubled.

“An inside joke, Inspector Bergman, between the two of us. It was never said in polite society and I’m sure he never mentioned it to anyone else. Where in heaven’s name did you hear that?”

Bergman’s mind nimbly sought an appropriate answer. “It came up in one of the briefings along with those other names,” he said. “Your name was never mentioned. Maybe Handley jotted it down somewhere, you know, on a list of calls to make or something.”

Nevins paused for a moment then relaxed, accepting the explanation. His sudden change in composure was evanescent.

“ Quid pro quo time,” he said.

“One more thing. It relates directly to the homicide.”

“I hope so. We made a deal.”

“Does the Yellow Door sound familiar?”

Nevins expression changed slightly. He leaned forward in his chair and took a swig from his glass.

“Your turn,” he said firmly.

“Okay. I will depend on you to keep what I’m about to tell you in complete confidence.”

“That was understood,” he nodded.

“He was your friend, sir. You’re going to find the details odious at the very least.”

“I’m prepared for that. Will it bother you if I smoke?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank God.” He took out a pack of unfiltered Camels, tamping the end of a cigarette on the table before lighting it. He drew deeply, leaned back with his eyes closed and exhaled toward the ceiling.

As Bergman described the scene, Nevins leaned forward, took a deep drink, lit one cigarette off the other and his expression became increasingly horrified.

“Oh. Oh, my dear God,” Nevins cried. He was shaking all over. The ash on his cigarette fluttered to the floor. Bergman took it from his hand, crushed it out in an ashtray. “I may be sick to my stomach,” Nevins croaked feebly.