Death Of A Dream Maker (34 page)

“Frank O'Conner,” a faint voice answered. Static and
the babble of other conversations interfered with the transmission.
“I'm calling you from my car.”

“I can hardly hear you,” Auntie Lil shouted.

The connection cleared. “Well, I can hear you fine
and I think you just blew out my eardrum,” the special agent said.
“I need you to meet me at Bellevue Hospital, third floor, as soon
as possible. Intensive care. Bring that private detective. She was
with you last night, right?”

“Yes. Why?” Auntie Lil asked.

“I think we've got one of the guys who attacked you.
I want you to take a look and tell me what you think.”

As soon as she agreed, O' Conner hung up, leaving no
time for more questions. Speculation about how the feds had nabbed
the man was useless. There was no time to waste.

Bangers and mash turned out to be giant sausages and
a plate of dense mashed potatoes. By the time T.S. had plowed
through half of his, Grady's plate was clean. Herbert had
sidestepped the issue by ordering a small chop and a large green
salad. He was as prudent in his diet as he was in life.

“I can't move,” T.S. declared, sitting back with a
sigh. He patted his belly. “There's no way I can muster the energy
for Sterling and Sterling. The very sight of all that hushed
elegance would send me into a stupor.”

Herbert held out a quarter. “You are a rich man now.
People must take your calls.” He nodded toward a row of
old-fashioned red British phone booths against one wall of the
downtown pub.

Herbert was proved right. T.S. had Bob Adams, head of
Sterling's trust subsidiary, on the line within a minute.

“T.S.,” he boomed heartily. “Decided what to do with
all that money?”

“Not quite,” he said feebly, hating the reminder that
there was still sixty-six million between him and Auntie Lil to
contend with. “I just have a few technical questions for you. I
realize they may sound a bit unorthodox, but with this lawsuit
about the estate and all... we need your help.”

Bob Adams had no problem answering any questions that
T.S. had: after all, T.S. was now a client. If T.S. had asked Bob
to cut off his own arm, the man would have replied, “Below or above
the elbow?”

By the time he hung up the phone, T.S. had his
information. When Davy died, one half of Max's fortune had passed
on to T.S. as the alternate beneficiary. The forty-eight hour
stipulation was a standard clause used in estate planning to avoid
confusion and court fights in the event of a common accident. But
if Max had not been prudent enough to insert such a clause in his
trust provisions—and no one in the family knew that he had—then
Davy's inheritance would have passed on to his own beneficiaries.
Since Davy lacked a will, his beneficiaries would most likely have
been his parents and, possibly, his siblings. The courts would have
decided the issue.

What had been in Max's prior will, the one the family
knew about? Instructions to divide one half of his cash estate
among all the nieces and nephews plus his wife, Sabrina, with the
other half going to his siblings, Abe and Rebecca. Of course, the
trust would still have taken effect and Auntie Lil would have
inherited half of the assets placed in it, but the family had not
known that. In their minds, the prior version of Max’s will meant
the entire pie would be divided among them. It was a motive for
murder.

The rest of Bob's information was equally
illuminating. Had Max moved to divorce Sabrina, the proof of her
infidelity would likely have caused the courts to uphold the
prenuptial agreement. She would have had to settle for relatively
little. But since Max had died before he filed for divorce, there
was no way to prove his intentions. This cast his will concerning
Sabrina into a gray area of law. The courts did not look kindly on
bequests that came with behavioral requirements attached, even
standards set forth in a prenuptial agreement. Should Max's will go
to court, Sabrina Rosenbloom had a very good chance of inheriting
much more than she had been left.

Was Sabrina sophisticated enough to have figured this
out? T.S. returned to his table, thinking it over. He was doubtful
she could have analyzed her options so accurately on her own. But
perhaps she had enlisted legal advice. Across a pillow, no
doubt.

It was not hard to find the right room. Unlike the
rest of the bustling hospital—which overflowed with injured and
anxious souls—the third-floor intensive-care unit was hushed and
nearly deserted. A policeman sat on a plastic chair tipped against
the wall, leafing through a magazine on muscle building. He looked
bored, but he was still on duty: despite their innocuous
appearance, he would not let Auntie Lil and Casey into the room
until he had entered first and checked with Frank O'Conner.

The special agent hurried out to greet them. He took
them down the hall to an empty waiting room where they could talk
privately. The room was meant to be cheery, but like all hospital
rooms, it was too sterile to lift the spirits. Small couches were
clustered around barren coffee tables, and lifeless modern prints
dotted the walls.

“This is the story,” O'Conner said, not bothering to
sit. Casey and Auntie Lil huddled around him like football players
focused on their quarterback. “We were watching some of Galvano's
men last night out on Staten Island. We received a tip from someone
and we're trying to nail him on anything we can get, so we acted on
it. About three o’clock in the morning, one of the agents involved
reported muffled gunfire inside the apartment. No one believed her
because we didn't hear return fire and we could see people moving
around inside like nothing had happened. But we started to believe
her when a couple of guys came out of the apartment carrying what
looked like a body wrapped in a blanket. We followed them out to
the landfill where the goons proceeded to unload the trunk and dump
their package on the water's edge. They're about to roll the guy
into the water when we stop them. What did we find inside the
package? We found quite a present for the prosecution. He's still
alive and he’s lying in that hospital room down the hall. He works
for Galvano and his name is Frankie Shanahan, also known as Frankie
Five Alarm. I'm ashamed to admit that he's Irish.” O'Conner shook
his head. “He's tough. Smart enough to play dead. This is where you
come in. Shanahan did something to piss Galvano off. Something big
enough to merit three bullets. If we believe Galvano when he says
he had nothing to do with Max's death, then maybe Shanahan was
freelancing and Galvano found out. This guy could be involved in
the attempt on your life last night.”

“Lives,” Casey interrupted.

“Lives. The timing is right. You get attacked, and a
couple of hours later Galvano orders this guy punished.” O'Conner
produced a fuzzy reproduction of four mug shots from his coat
pocket. “See what you think.” The photographs showed various views
of Frankie Five Alarm Shanahan, including his left and right
profiles and two head-on shots. He was tall with a prominent Adam's
apple and huge ears shaped like giant butterflies. His hair was the
color of rusty carrots and stuck out wildly from his head like
renegade clumps of sea grass.

“Good Lord. Talk about conspicuous.” Casey took the
photograph and stared at it curiously, holding it closer and then
farther away.

“Look familiar?” O'Conner asked.

“I don't know,” Casey admitted.

“I can't tell from a photograph,” Auntie Lil
interrupted. “Could we see him now? If you could get him to grunt
or breathe heavily, maybe I could tell.”

O'Conner stared at Auntie Lil. “I can't even get him
to say his name, so I doubt he'll grunt on command. But I'll take
you in for a few minutes. Let me know what you think, even if
you're not sure. He's put on weight since he had those photos
taken. Abromowitz said your attackers were heavy set?”

“I thought they were,” Auntie Lil corrected him. “I'm
not completely sure.”

O' Conner nodded. “Good enough. Take your time and
get a good look at him. Don't let the bandages bother you. Even if
you just think it might be him, let me know. I'm not looking for
evidence in a court of law. I'm looking for leverage. I need
something I can threaten to charge him with to get him to
talk.”

A nurse approached them. “Agent O'Conner?” she said,
her voice infused with unmistakable authority.

She was beautiful, but O'Conner did not notice. The
man lived, slept, and breathed his job. “Yeah?” he asked, annoyed
at the interruption.

“The doctor is in with your patient right now. I'm
afraid you're going to have to wait until he's done before you
disturb him further.”

O'Conner groaned with frustration and glumly plopped
down on one of the couches. His scowl could have peeled the soft
yellow paint from the waiting-room walls.

Even Casey could read his mood. She sat down next to
a silent Auntie Lil and quietly stared at the photo of Frankie Five
Alarm in her hands, wondering if she had seen him before.

•

 They still had a number of hours before their
second meeting with Seth Rosenbloom. T.S. was not eager to return
home, where he would be forced to endure pointed remarks by Auntie
Lil about her excellent health. Herbert suggested they swing by Max
Rose Fashions to see if the old guard, Hiram Tate, had come in
yet.

“He's on his way,” the lobby guard on duty told them.
“Says he feels better. Guy is terrified of losing his job. Go
figure. This is not what I would call a fulfilling career.” He
yawned. “Should be here in half an hour. I hope.” He yawned
again.

They spent the time waiting in the backseat of
Lilah's limousine. The tinted windows afforded them privacy and
made it easy to keep an eye on who went in and out of Max Rose
Fashions. Very few people did. Nor did the suspect truck reappear.
For all they knew, it was on its way to Kalamazoo.

The garment district was winding down. The dense
human traffic thinned and the street noise had abated to a more
normal level. Inside the profusion of delis, waitresses wiped down
counters and waited to close. Another busy day was nearly over.

Hiram Tate emerged from the nearby subway exit
slowly, using the railing to pull his frail body up the steep
stairs.

“That has to be him,” T.S. said. “He's old and he's
shaking. Just like Auntie Lil said.”

More to the point, he was also wearing a guard
uniform topped only by a windbreaker despite the chilly
late-afternoon air. T.S. and Herbert stopped him before he reached
the Max Rose Fashions building. They wanted to question him
alone.

The man reacted to their sudden presence with the
resigned air of one who is used to being kicked around. T.S.
introduced himself as one of the new owners of the company. That,
at least, seemed to galvanize the old guard.

“I'm being fired, aren't I?” he asked, his voice
trembling. His lower lip quivered.

“Of course you're not. My God, man, absolutely
not.”

T.S. was horrified. He had not intended to terrify
the man, only persuade him to answer a few questions.

“Doesn't matter,” the old guy mumbled. “I will be.
Just you wait. Jake Rosenbloom is going to can me real soon.”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about,” T.S.
explained. “My aunt told me about your concerns last night. She was
one of the women who was attacked.”

“Bad business.” Hiram took off his cap and scratched
at his thinning strands of white hair. “Didn't see a thing. Can't
think how they unlocked the back entrance. Must have had keys.”

T.S. nodded. “Looks like it.” He shivered. “It's a
little cold. Could we get into my car and talk?”

Hiram was about to balk, but the sight of the stretch
limo convinced him that it was better to cooperate with the new
owner. The guy was rich enough. Maybe he could help.

“Never saw anything like this,” the old man marveled,
running his hands over the leather upholstery. He perched on the
edge of the seat like a child awaiting his turn in a spelling
bee.

“This is my associate, Mr. Wong.” T.S. introduced
Herbert, who bobbed his head. “Could I get you a drink?” He was
dying to try out the limousine’s flip-down bar and the old guy sure
seemed to need one.

“A drink?” Hiram's eyes narrowed. “This is a test,
isn't it? You think I was drinking last night and missed
something.”

“Heavens, no.” T.S. would have to be more careful.
Here was a man intent on fulfilling his own premonitions of
failure. “In fact, I'm not interested in last night at all.”

“What are you interested in?” Hiram asked. He
carefully slid a few inches away from T.S. as if suspecting that he
was up to some particularly sneaky trick.

“I want to know why you're so sure that Jake
Rosenbloom is going to fire you.”

The old man's face went pale. “I can't say nothing.
I'd lose my job.”

“He can't fire you. Not without the consent of the
other owners. Not anymore.”

“He can and he will,” the old man said sharply. “He
said as much to my face.”

“He told you that you would be fired if you said
anything at all about what you saw,” Herbert broke in suddenly. His
voice was calm and reassuring. “Is that right?”

Hiram nodded.

“But he wasn't talking about last night, was he?”
Herbert prompted.

Hiram shook his head vigorously.

“Because he was talking about the day that Max
Rosenbloom died.” It was an astute and well-aimed guess.

The old man stared at Herbert. “You know about it,
then?”

“Yes,” Herbert lied. “Someone else observed you.”

“Must have been behind the potted plants, then. I
didn't see anyone else. Until the blast. Just him—meaning
Jake—waiting in that little hallway that leads to the newspaper
stand. He was pretending to smoke a cigarette.” The old man rubbed
his chin. “I thought it was a little peculiar. Man like that can
smoke in his office if he wants to. But I didn't say anything. I
thought maybe he'd had another one of his fights with his brother.
Those two could go at it sometimes.”