Investigation (24 page)

“Er, Jaytee ...”

“What Jeffrey here is trying to warn me is that you really shouldn’t be seen gallivantin’ around too much, but I’ll rely on your discretion, Miz Kitty. Remember, now, any questions at all, you get in touch with Jeff. He’s tall, but he’s smart.”

The voice level changed as Jaytee moved toward the door. “Now here’s the most important thing of all, Kitty. You don’t talk on this telephone about
anything at all
that’s botherin’ you; you call Jeff and he’ll take you somewhere, coffee shop or a park bench, but nothing on this telephone.” There was a short, thoughtful silence. “And you don’t say nothin’ private or important in this room, ya hear? Ain’t our bastards got this place bugged; it’s
their
bastards.” Both Vito and I pulled back from the machine and looked at each other. Vito shook his head and said a few words in Italian.

Apparently Kitty hadn’t quite gotten his message. She asked him, “Jaytee, what do you think is going to happen to me?”

“Well, I think there’s a good chance, at least it’s what the D.A.’s aimin’ at, that sooner or later, one way or another, you’ll be indicted for first-degree murder. But don’t you worry none, Kitty. You got ole Jaytee on your side now.”

We heard them exchanging good-byes at the door, then heard Jaytee step to the elevator. Vito watched him through the peephole, and when the elevator closed on him Vito said, “That son-of-a-bitch is smart as hell, Joe. You notice something, Joe? With all that nice, charmin’ sweet-talkin’ he done, he never once asked her; he never once came right out and asked her.”

“Asked her what?”

“If she done it, Joe, if she done it.”

I didn’t answer Vito. I was very busy rewinding and collecting tapes because Tim was very anxious to hear them. It really didn’t make much sense, and I didn’t want Vito to notice, but I felt that a heavy, pressing, steel-edged weight had been lifted from the pit of my stomach.

J
AY T. WILLIAMS DIDN’T
waste any time; he got right to work collecting his own bastards. He gave a brief, light, friendly, concerned interview at Kennedy Airport while waiting for his flight to down-home. Listening to Jaytee, you’d think he was talking about another girl entirely: he was setting the new image of Kitty Keeler before the public and he was smart as hell and very persuasive. It would be up to Kitty to follow through; I think he’d convinced her it was necessary.

A feature article in the next morning’s
Daily News
quoted Jaytee as saying of Kitty Keeler, “Why, this girl has more guts than any man I’ve ever known. She been puttin’ on a front, actin’ out a role, and it’s cost her plenty to carry it off. She’d made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t break down in public. This kid’s got a sense of pride you wouldn’t believe. When I saw her in private, why, it’d like to tear your heart out, to see this, girl’s grief. She tole me, why, she nearly puts herself into a trance out in public, which is why you hardhearted s.o.b.’s been thinkin’ of her in all the wrong ways. Look, you know and I know, every person grieves in his or her own way. Hell, I’d sure hate to be expected to carry my grief out to the public, wouldn’t you?”

Relative to Kitty’s being in protective custody, Jaytee Williams commented as follows: “If that there Jerry Kelleher hadn’t come up with the idea hisself, I damn sure would have. Glad to see him takin’ a sensible line after all the hootin’ and nonsensical hollerin’ I seen him doin’ on the TV and in the papers. Fact of the matter is, they had this poor girl stuck in a dumb, unprotected motel out near this very airport, where every nut and screwball in the world coulda had at her. And I’m about to tell you this too, though Kitty herself will have a fit, should she read this interview. That girl is scared near to death—and rightly so, rightly so, what with the position she’s in. Now, I’m not sayin’ one way or t’other way, but you can all just figure it out for yourselves: any desperate sick-minded low-life that coulda done her little babies like they did, why, it wouldn’t be no more than whipped cream on a cake to them to do Kitty. She’s knowed that all along, but she’s been carryin’ her head high and you guys been callin’ down all kinds of things on her for it. The burden on this girl is mighty heavy enough without you fellas adding to it, and fair-minded that I’ve always known you all to be, I’m askin’ you all now to put yourselves in Kitty Keeler’s situation. And have a little compassion for what she’s been through. And a lot of admiration for how she’s handled things all by her lonesome. And be advised, gents and Jerry Kelleher, she ain’t by her lonesome no more.”

Gorgeous Jerry Kelleher, of course, had apoplexy at being addressed by name by this mushmouthed phony bullshit artist, and he had Tim Neary up and at attention by 9
A.M.
the day Jaytee’s campaign hit the newspapers. Which put Tim Neary into one of his front-line, down-to-earth, we’re-all-in-this-together moods.

What he said to those squad members still in the office when he returned from the top floor was, “What the fuck are all you men doing in the office? What is this, anyway, coffee and gossip time?”

The last crack was meant for me in particular. It’s not that I’m overly sensitive; it’s just that I
was
finishing a container of lukewarm coffee and laughing into the telephone at the exact moment of Tim’s arrival.

“Whenever it’s convenient for you, Joe,” Tim said, “if you can fit it into your schedule, I’d like to see you in my office.”

I nodded and went on talking on the telephone. It’s amazing how fast nearly everyone else wound up their office business; reports were quickly stapled together, notes stuffed into pockets; Sergeant Gelber, who had been out sick for a week and looked terrible, was advised by each team leaving where they were going.

The first thing Tim said to me when I entered his office was, “What the fuck is Sam Catalano doing hanging around with George Keeler? This a secret operation you got going, Joe? Something you’re gonna surprise me with or what? What the fuck is going on, anyway, Joe?”

“We’re all in on it together,
Captain Neary. All of us.
It’s us against you. I figured you’d figure that out sooner or later.”

We stood with the desk between us, both of us breathing hard and both of us waiting to see exactly how far this stupid thing would go. Or rather, how far we’d
let
it go.

Tim shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think I slept more than two hours all told last night.”

“Then you better get to bed early tonight, Tim. Insomnia is making you nasty.”

I still felt tight and ready, but we both knew it was over for the moment.

“What the hell was that pompous schmuck upstairs telling me about Catalano ‘bringing George Keeler along’? How long’s that been going on?”

“A coupla days. I guess Sam feels that by buddying up to George he might be able to turn him. Against Kitty.”

Tim raised his eyebrows.

I shook my head. “Not a chance. George is true-blue. Which is why I figured it wouldn’t do any harm. And it would keep Sam from underfoot. He was doing it on his own time, so what the hell, let him do it on city time.”

“All right, all right, makes sense. Just in the future, Joe,
you
tell me what’s going on in my own squad. I don’t want to be told again by that bastard upstairs.” Tim took a good look at my face and said quickly, “All right, all right, Joe, for Christ’s sake, don’t
you
go getting touchy, too.” Which, coming from Tim Neary, can be considered an apology; which is as close as I’ve ever known him to get.

Apparently there was nobody left in the outer office to warn Vito, because he came barging into Tim’s office loudmouthed and excited. There are days when everyone, even Vito, should tap on the door and wait for Tim’s invitation. This was definitely one of those days. Tim’s face went right back to that tight, tooth-grinding, trouble-borrowing expression.

“Joey, Joey.” Vito wrapped his arms around me from behind and squeezed once, then let me go. I felt like I’d missed two complete breath cycles. “Timmy, kid, wadda ya say, Timmy, huh? Wadda ya say?”

“Vito.”
That was all Tim was able to say; he was cracking his knuckles two at a time.

“Hey, Tim, you got your tight shoes on again today, huh, Captain Timmy?” Vito dropped into a chair, put his large feet up on Tim’s desk. “I’m gonna relieve your achin’ feet, Tim. Jeez, Joe, don’t he look terrible? Whatsa matter, Tim, they been givin’ ya the business upstairs again? Huh?”

Tim stood directly behind his desk chair; his fingers clenched the top of the chair so hard that his knuckles cracked all by themselves. “Vito. I’ll give you thirty seconds. And it better be good. Really good.”

Vito let his head fall back and he looked like he was doing eye exercises, examining first one corner of the ceiling and then the other. Finally he pulled his feet off the desk, pulled himself upright and said, “It’s good, Tim. Oh, it’s good.”

Tim walked around his chair, sat down, folded his hands on the desk and said, very quietly, “Fine, Vito. Any time you’re ready. I’m listening,”

Vito wanted to savor it a little longer; he shook his head, grinned, winked at Tim, then at me. He turned sharply toward the cracking sound. “Tim, you’re gonna give yourself arthritis of the knuckles you keep doin’ that. Tim.” Vito’s voice changed. “You remember you told me to keep a team on Vincent Martucci.” Tim’s face went blank for a moment. “Yeah, I forgot about it, too, Tim. So Haley and Finn been stayin’ with him on the late shift. They been workin’ six P to two A, since this guy moves around a lot at night.” Vito grinned. “And everywhere that Vincent went, the tail was sure to go! Right, Tim?”

“Cut out the goddamn nursery rhymes, Vito, and get to the point.”

“Well, Captain Tim, they tailed Mr. Martucci from his house to his health spa. From his health spa, he went to a nice restaurant in Manhasset where he ate his dinner. In the company of a coupla friends, right? Then, he has his driver take him into Manhattan. They pull up in front of one of those really swanky new buildings on Third Avenue. Jeez, remember the old days, Joe? When Third Avenue was like the Bowery uptown? With all them bums sleepin’ on the stations of the El?”

I just stared at Vito. He glanced at Tim and shrugged. “Okay, okay. So Vincent, Mr. Martucci, gets out of his limo and sends his driver away. He heads for the building. He enters the building. Then, Tim, then, like two minutes later, Vincent pops out of the building. He walks to the corner. He looks all around. He hails a cab. The cab takes him, Vincent Martucci,” down to the Village. Greenwich Village, right? Lower Greenwich Village. Vincent gets out of the cab.” The words had been coming from Vito in short jabbing bursts; his head swung from Tim to me as he spoke. “And then, Tim, huh?, then, Joe, Vincent Martucci spends the next three hours, from ten P to one A, visiting ... ya ready?—
the gay bars, Cruisin’,
Timmy.”

“Cruising?”

“The gay bars?”

Vito looked from Tim to me. He stood up, placed himself behind my chair, grabbed my shoulders and pressed his clamplike fingers into me for emphasis.

“Cruisin’; cruisin’ down the fuckin’ river, Timmy! Vincent Martucci was lookin’ for a goddamn
boy!”

It took us three nights to get Vincent Martucci.

While the younger team of Haley and Finn tailed him from saloon to saloon, Geraldi and I waited, slumped in my Chevy. On the third night, when Martucci, in the company of a tall blond male hustler, headed for a local one-nighter, Vito and I became part of the tail. As soon as we entered the musty lobby of the hotel I felt a sharpening of the senses, and a sort of electric alertness wiped out the long hours of bored fatigue. Geraldi told Haley to stay with the panic-stricken room clerk after we learned that Martucci had been given the key to Room 12. Two small, thin young homosexuals entered the lobby, took one look at the little group surrounding the desk and, without breaking their arm-in-arm synchronized stride, about-faced and exited.

Vito, Tom Finn and I stood in the narrow dark insecticide-smelling hallway. Vito, his ear pressed against the door, listened, then whispered, “Now’s as good a time as any.”

The door splintered at the impact of Vito’s shoulder and he went wheeling across the small bedroom, landing almost on top of a naked Vincent Martucci and an almost naked hustler. In the confusion, Vito grabbed the hustler and a collection of clothing and said, “You take Martucci, Joe. I don’t trust myself. I might kill the bum.”

I picked up the butter-soft suede shirt and slacks and held them toward Martucci, but he bent over, grabbing his stomach, and made it into the dark little cubicle in time to vomit into the toilet. He ran the small trickle of water in the sink over his hands, dabbed water on his face, then blotted himself on the rough paper towels. Within the next five minutes, he was dressed and deposited in the rear seat of my car between Haley and Finn. Vito, who had scared the living hell out of the hustler before giving him a kick in the ass out the hotel’s side door, sat next to me as I drove. Vito was breathing heavily; it was the only sound in the car.

We took Martucci to a small, quiet, unused office down a long corridor on the third floor of the Kew Gardens Criminal Courts Building. The room was dim as we entered, but Tim, who had been waiting, switched on the overhead light, which really didn’t add much visibility. I pulled out a chair for Martucci; he seemed to fold into it. The man inside the beautiful suede custom-made outfit had become as limp as a scarecrow racked by blight. His hands trembled as he pressed his face into his palms.

“Vincent, look up.”

Vito came behind the chair and jerked Martucci’s face up toward the light, but Tim shook his head and Vito walked away.

“Vincent, do you want to call your attorney?” Tim turned and picked up a telephone from the small desk. “You want
me
to call him for you?” Tim’s voice sounded concerned and serious; there was nothing mocking or mean about it. “In fact, Vince, you can leave right now. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. No one has placed you under arrest, have they?”