Christopher Buckley - Wet Work

Tim didn't call again after that, but he did send a thoughtful note saying how busy things were now that the show was moving uptown. He enclosed Jimmy Podesta's tribute to Natasha in The TriBeCa Times and said that E. Fremont-Carter was reportedly pretty shaken up by the whole thing. He said Podesta was going to dedicate the opening-night show to Natasha.

Charley was not pushy with Detective Mullen. He knew how people hate it when the rich start throwing their weight around. The presence of Felix-a former colleague of Mullen-provided a note of professional collegiality.

"We don't have any 'suspects,' Mr. Becker. It's not that kind of situation."

"What kind would you say it is?"

"It would appear to be a self-inflicted situation."

"Mr. Tamarino," said Charley, "you questioned him."

"Twice."

"When you question someone, do you reveal information to them about evidence?"

"Of course not."

"Of course. Could we hear those telephone messages?" There were five of them. Detective Mullen played them for Charley and Felix. In the first he said, "Tasha? Where are you? Natasha, hello, I'm here. Are you there, Natasha?" There was a two-hour gap between the first message and the second, and an average of half an hour between that and the third, fourth and fifth, all of them variations on the same theme: "Where the hell are you? You didn't show at the museum, how come?"

"The background sound in the first message," said Felix, "that's not a museum."

"I asked him about that," said Detective Mullen. "He changed it slightly. First time, he said he was calling from inside the museum, second time I asked, he said he used the pay phone outside on the street."

"So he changed his story."

"Not significantly," said Mullen. "Anyway, his whereabouts are accounted for. He was with a guy named Emiliano Ramirez, works as an usher at the theater, from five o'clock to seven-thirty at the Spring Street Bar and Grill and after that they went to a club downtown called Gulag. They were there from approximately seven forty-five until two A.M. The ME says she died between eight and twelve, so there we are. I can't say much for Mr. Tamarino's taste in clubs, but he was there, apparently."

"How do you mean?"

"How do I mean? The band at Gulag was called Tipper Gore and one individual I spoke with identified himself as Phlegm."

"What about the keys?"

"I can't account for the keys, Mr. Becker."

"But the door was locked and you couldn't find her keys."

"Correct. Also, there were no prints on either doorknob, which is unusual, but not conclusive. It's winter and people wear gloves."

"Murderers wear gloves."

"Yes, they do. But what motive did you have in mind? She seems to have been a very well-liked person from what I can gather."

"All right, but the keys. The building superintendent didn't let her in. Where are the keys?"

"I don't know where the keys are, Mr. Becker."

"What about the thing you said you inhale cocaine through? The straw. There was no straw."

"No. But a lot of times they roll up a dollar bill and snort it through that. Sometimes they use a hundred-dollar bill. It depends on the socioeconomics, if you follow. I had the bills in her wallet tested for trace amounts."

"And?"

"Two of them tested positive for cocaine. But that doesn't mean anything, necessarily. These days, seventy-five percent of all the bills in circulation that they test, test positively for cocaine. In Orange County, California, recently they tested twenty-four bills for cocaine and twenty-four tested positive."

"So it means the bills in her wallet weren't necessarily the ones used?"

"That's correct."

"So the keys and the straw, that's two suspicious pieces of evidence."

"No, sir. That's two missing pieces, not evidence. Look, Mr. Becker, I appreciate what you're going through. A lot of families go through exactly what you are. I've put more into this case than, frankly, I ordinarily would've, out of respect for who you are and all, and because Mr. Velez used to be on the force. But I want to be honest with you. The evidence does not support a continuing investigation. But-but-I'm not dropping it, I'm going to stay on it to the extent I can and as long as I can. I'll keep Mr. Velez fully advised. I'm afraid that's really all I can do. As I say, I appreciate what you're going through."

The District Attorney for the County of New York rubbed his eyes from lack of sleep. A U.S. senator from New York had been indicted the day before and he'd been asked to go on Nightline . The show started late due to the play-offs, then Koppel went over and by the time he got home to Pelham Manor it was two in the morning. Then he couldn't get to sleep because the stupid ass production assistant must have given him regular coffee instead of decaf and finally at four he popped a Valium only to be awoken at five by the baby screaming.

The Assistant District Attorney opened the door and walked in tentatively. He was still in his twenties, just out of Yale, or Harvard?

"Sit down, Ed." The ADA sat. It was only his second time in the holy of holies.

"What do we have?"

"The police think she may have been given the cocaine by the boyfriend, Timothy Tamarino. He's the director of the play she was in. But it's very soft. He-"

"You want some coffee? I've got to have some coffee. Helen, bring me and Ed two extremely large black coffees. How do you take it?"

"Black is fine," he said, though he took cream and sugar.

"Go on," said the DA, speed-reading the file: the police, the phone company report, the unanimous statements from Tasha's friends attesting to her drug-free lifestyle.

"It all hangs on the first message on the answering machine. Mullen, the detective in charge, questioned him on two separate occasions. On the first, Tamarino says he placed the call from the lobby of the Museum of Modern Art. But in the background you can hear a boom box Dopplering past-"

"What?"

"A large portable tape cassette player-"

"Ghetto blaster."

"Right-going past, playing a U-z song, I believe"-he checked his notes-"right, 'Running to Stand Still.' The point is the museum doesn't allow people inside with boom boxes. Mullen confronted Tamarino with this the second time he interviewed him. That was probably a mistake. Tamarino said now that he remembered, he made the call from a pay phone outside."

"Goddamn right it was a mistake. Still, it's not much."

"No, it isn't. Mullen says the thumb and forefinger prints on the cocaine vial were so clean that they looked planted. Plus the door was locked and they can't find the keys."

"That's something."

The ADA nodded. "But the ME put the time of death at between eight P.M. and midnight and Tamarino was with someone at a club from seven-thirty to well after midnight."

"Gulag?" said the DA, reading. "For Christ sake. Where does it end? Discos named after Auschwitz? Dachau? Bergen-Belsen? Sometimes you just want to pull the handle and flush. So that's it?"

"Yes. As far as the Sixth Precinct Detective Squad is concerned."

"What do you think?"

"I think it's… very thin."

"Thin? It's cellophane. It's Saran Wrap."

"But I think it was Tamarino's cocaine. And I don't think keys walked out of there by themselves."

The DA sighed. "Missing keys. Not enough here for 220.3 and even less for a 125.15."

The ADA scrolled up the numbers on his brain screen: sale of a controlled substance, B felony; second-degree manslaughter, C felony. "Mullen said, off the record, that he'd be willing to arrest him and shake his tree to see what falls off, but I didn't think you wanted to go that route."

The DA stared into middle space. "You don't remember the Kennedy case, do you? David Kennedy. Couple of years ago, '85, '86?"