Investigation (34 page)

I could see Ray’s mind working: what the hell did I hear Joe Peters was on? But he kept his face absolutely expressionless. He nodded and took a small black notebook and a slim gold ballpoint from his pocket.

“Names?”

“One guy, probably about a third- or fourth-cut dealer, is Billy Weaver. The other guy, probably a pusher or a go-fer, I get as ‘Benjamin the Cuban.’ ”

Ray didn’t even write the names down. He didn’t have to; which is why I came to Ray Ortega in the first place.

“I hope you don’t need to talk to Billy Weaver real bad, Joe.”

“Why what’s his problem?”

“He don’t have any more problems, Joe. Not since about the third week in May when he floated to the surface of the Gowanus Canal, dragging a coupla concrete weights along with him. They were tied around his neck with a coupla strands of piano wire.”

Kitty had told me that Billy Weaver needed help; that she’d promised to speak to Vince Martucci on his behalf. She hadn’t known what the situation was, just that “Billy was a friend and he needed help and I promised to do what I could.”

“What’s the story on it, Ray? Or do you know?”

Ray shrugged. “Even if I didn’t know, it wouldn’t be hard to figure, Joe. Cocaine has become
the
drug of choice, therefore the most lucrative traffic around. It’s been a South American and Cuban monopoly for a long time, with blacks not even in the middle levels until recently. A coupla black guys figure that by now they should be able to eliminate at least one or two middlemen. Some of their
compadres
agree, others don’t. Those dealing with Billy Weaver apparently didn’t agree he was ready for a step up.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that Billy Weaver was black; Kitty hadn’t said, one way or the other.

“They don’t kid around, the Cubans and the South Americans, Joe. It never comes down to a question of how to handle someone who might give you trouble. You eliminate trouble before it starts by getting rid of the troublemaker, or even the potential troublemaker. It beats fair-trade rules and regulations.”

“Which leaves me ‘Benjamin the Cuban.’ Or does it?”

“He’s around, as far as I know. He’s a Puerto Rican who figures he’ll do better as a Cuban in the trade. Benjamin Garcia Nelson. A young handsome guy, Joe. Pretty big with the ladies. It’s very possible he set up Billy Weaver.” Ray shrugged. “That’s how it goes, you want to get ahead in the world, right?”

The kids at the counter and the skinny proprietor were having a tasting session. The two customers took bites of a sticky-looking dark cake and tried to guess what they were eating. When I pulled out some money to settle the bill, one of the kids held a dish up to me. “I guess honey and dates and something else. It’s the something else I can’t zero in on.”

I was starving and the cake smelled delicious. It tasted delicious, and with my change the owner included a sticky slab of his “secret recipe.”

“You see, Ray,” the kid said, “I told you it’s better not to tell people what the hell they’re eating until after they have a chance to see if they like something or not, right?”

“What are they made of?” I asked. “What is this stuff?”

The kid shrugged. I kept chewing all the way to the parking lot, trying to pick out the ingredients. Whatever it was, it was really good.

“Where can I reach you, Joe, between midnight and, say, three
A.M.
?”

I gave Ray my home phone number. Then I asked Ray what the cakes were made of.

“Joe, it’s a basically protein-rich blend of ingredients flavored with honey and dates. This combination might one day solve the world food crisis, but I have a feeling you’d better not ask where the protein comes from.”

I swallowed what was in my mouth and tossed the rest of the cake into the gutter. “I have a feeling you’re right.”

The whole room was filled with the kind of fresh-country-air fragrance they tell you about in the shampoo commercials on television. Her hair was still slightly damp, and as she sat cross-legged on the couch opposite me Kitty pulled a heavy brush through the unbelievably thick whitish mass, methodically, in a steady practiced rhythm.

All I told her was that I was on my own time for a week or two, nothing else.

“I’m going to ask you something, Kitty, and I want a straight answer.” Her hair flashed beneath her brush; it was very distracting. “Look, do you think you could cut that out for now?”

She looked startled, as though unaware of the automatic ritual. “Brushing my hair? Oh, I’m sorry, Joe. I
am
paying attention.”

She held the brush in her hands and watched me closely.

“Kitty, who do you think killed the boys?” She shook her head and studied the hairbrush in her lap. “Look at me, Kitty.” Her face was pale and she blinked rapidly, looking past me toward the wall. “Kitty?”

“I think I’ve known from the very beginning.”

“Known what?”

She focused on me now and her voice was low but controlled and steady. “That George killed the boys. There was something about him, something. When you both came back to the apartment and he said ... he said, ‘They’re dead, baby, both of them.’ ”

“Then why the hell haven’t you said anything, all this time?”

“Who would have believed me? Would you?”

“How the hell could you have faced George, every day, been with him, every day, believing he killed the boys?”

There was a curious shift between us now; I was the one who was tense and uneasy. Kitty was strangely calm, studying me, trying to learn why it was so important for me to understand her.

“It’s hard to explain. It’s just ... George. Look, I’ve spent a lifetime with him. From the time I was a little kid I’ve turned to George. We’ve had some bad times; I’ve given him some bad times.”

“But for Christ’s sake, Kitty, we’re talking about the murder of your sons!”

She studied the hairbrush, absently untwined long blond strands of hair from the bristles. “Joe, he didn’t
mean
to hurt the boys. He didn’t
mean
to. It was something that happened; just the way he explained it in his letter. An accident with Georgie. And Terry: he was so deep asleep from the pills, George must have thought that he ... that he’d done something to Terry too. Joe, can you imagine what it must have been like for George to live with this? To walk around, knowing what he’d done. Joe, you didn’t know George, how he loved the boys, how he loved me.”

“How he loved you enough to let you be dragged through the newspapers? Enough to let you be indicted?”

“George was suffering, Joe. He was in hell. It was my fault, what happened. It really was
my
fault. I’ve been so rotten to him. That night. That night I deliberately tied up the phone when I knew he’d try to call me back. I knew he’d keep trying. Only ... I didn’t know that he’d come over to the apartment.”

“Or that he’d kill your sons? You didn’t know he’d do that, did you, Kitty?”

She jumped up angrily. “My God, it wasn’t like that—that he came over to hurt the boys, or me either. You read his letter. Can’t you get inside his head for even one minute and feel what it must have been like for him? The minute he ... he ... hurt Georgie, can you imagine what he must have felt? I can imagine it, Joe. I can understand George’s suffering. Look, maybe I needed to let it all happen to me: to be accused, to be written up in the papers like that. Maybe I had to ... I don’t know, suffer for my own sins. Maybe, maybe I had to let George feel he was protecting me, that he was the only one I could turn to. Maybe ... I don’t know, maybe that was all I had left to give to him and I felt I owed him that.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Kitty.”

That wasn’t true; I think I did know, at least partially. But one of the things I was worried about was her attitude toward George. Now that he was dead, was she still going to try and protect him? The way she persisted in protecting Vincent Martucci? There were so many things I didn’t know about her; things I would have to know, if I was going to help her.

“Kitty, come on. Sit down.” She had that tough, cynical, wiseguy look on her face; her eyes glared, her mouth tightened, her chin came up slightly. She raked her long fingers through her hair, tossed her head abruptly so that her hair flipped back toward her shoulders.

“Did George ever tell you he did it?”

She shook her head.

“Did you ever ask him if he did it?”

She shook her head again.

“In order to prove you didn’t kill the boys, Kitty, it’s going to be necessary to do two things: one, prove that George did it; two, prove that you didn’t.”

“I thought a person doesn’t have to prove innocence. I thought the great American system says you’re innocent until proved guilty. Another bunch of baloney, right, Joe?”

“You better believe it’s another bunch of baloney. If you were to go on trial tomorrow, with the kind of publicity you’ve had, not to mention the fact that you’ve given your attorney nothing to work with ...” Which reminded me of another important question. “Kitty, have you told any of this to Williams? What has ole Jaytee said about it?”

“About my being with Billy Weaver?” She shrugged. “I didn’t bother to tell him anything.”

“You didn’t
bother
to tell him? Lady, you don’t need a lawyer, you need a keeper!”

“Listen, do you think for one minute he gives a good goddamn if I killed the kids or if I didn’t kill the kids? You want to know about Jaytee Williams? I’ll tell you, Joe. To this day,” she clenched a fist, “to this very minute, he hasn’t asked me, not once, he hasn’t asked me if I killed the kids, if I had anything to do with it. You know what he said? You want to hear good ole Jaytee’s approach to the law? ‘Why, it don’t matter one little good goddamn, Miz Kitty, whether a person is guilty or innocent. Don’t nobody on that jury really care one way or the other. What they want is to be convinced that the person on trial either
deserves
to go free or
deserves
to go to prison.’ ” She spoke in a biting imitation of the good-old-Southern-boy drawl Williams used; she had caught his inflection and pace perfectly. She dropped it abruptly and said, “I’m very
convictable
right now, Joe. People want to convict me of
something.
After all, I haven’t behaved the way ‘people’ think I should, the way a ‘mother’ should have reacted, so what the hell, convict Kitty of murder if that’s the only charge you can come up with.” Then, remembering what I’d asked her originally, “No, I haven’t told Jaytee Williams about my leaving the kids alone and meeting Billy Weaver. What for?”

“Why didn’t you tell Jaytee Williams that Vince Martucci is a homosexual?”

“What for? What would be the point?”

I just stared at her, wondering when she’d start thinking about her own situation.

“Damn it, Joe. Vincent is a
friend!”

“A
friend?”
I turned my face away, then said in a quiet neutral voice, as though giving her information she didn’t already have, “Kitty, Vincent Martucci is murdering you.”

“He had no choice. You know that better than I do. You were a part of it!”

If things stayed at this level, there wasn’t going to be very much accomplished. “Okay, okay.” Then, more out of curiosity than anything else, “Kitty, have you ever been in touch with Marvin L. Schneiderman since you met him in the Bahama spa?”

“Who?”

“George carried the card he gave you in his wallet. You haven’t forgotten Marvin L. Schneiderman, have you?”

“Of
course
I’ve forgotten him. Joe, what the hell good could he have done me? Sure, I’ve seen his picture in the papers; I’ve seen the election posters and ads. Look, I met him once; he was a nice guy. Can you just see the headlines if someone could connect his name with mine and—” She stopped speaking abruptly; then her eyes flashed with understanding. “Oh my God. I heard on the radio last night that he’d had a heart attack. That he had to drop out of the mayor’s race. Is
that
why? Because a couple of years ago he gave me his business card, with an offer to help out in any way he could?”

It sounded very cold-blooded, the way she put it. In fact, it was very cold-blooded. It added to her opinion of the American system.

“You know, Joe, it would be funny if it wasn’t so awful.”

She spent the next few minutes worrying about Marvin L. Schneiderman. A few minutes earlier she’d been worrying about her dead husband and how bad he’d felt about murdering their two kids. Then she’d worried about her “friend” Vincent Martucci, who had betrayed her. I wondered who she’d start worrying about next.

“A couple more questions, Kitty, then we’ll take a ride to Jackson Heights.”

She sat down and watched me closely with a combination of suspicion and antagonism. She was making it very difficult to get some points on her side of the balance sheet—unless loyalty counted, in which case she’d score very high. However, it wasn’t proof of her loyalty we needed. It was proof of her innocence.

“Kitty, did you ever tell George that you left the boys alone that night?”

She shook her head. “No. I was ashamed.” She tried to judge how I received that. “Look, I was
ashamed,
can’t you understand that? What kind of mother leaves two little kids alone, and one of them with the measles?”

Compared to a father who strangles his two kids and dumps their bodies in a lot and puts a bullet into one of them, it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world a mother could do.

“All right, next question. Why the hell did you insist you last saw the boys between one and one-thirty
A.M.
on the night they were killed?”

“Because I figured if I
had
been home with them, I
would
have checked on them at about that time.”

“But you
weren’t
home with them, Kitty. Why did you stick with that time even after the Medical Examiner’s report stated they were probably both dead, or Georgie dead and Terry unconscious, by that time?”

I knew exactly what she was going to say. And she said it.

“Because everyone kept asking me was I sure, was I sure, was I sure it was between one and one-thirty and ...”