Murder Miscalculated (17 page)

“Why me?”

Cochran shrugged his shoulders. “Kid, I’m foundering in the dark here. I don’t know which way is up or who I can trust. I’d like you to hear what he has to say and how he says it. We can compare notes afterward and decide if he’s on the up and up.”

I had to agree that it made sense. Besides, I was tired of always being one step behind events.

Cochran took the top off his coffee and drained what was left. I did the same as we got up from the bench and began walking back to Metcalf’s hotel, pitching our empty cups in a wastebasket as we left the square.

Metcalf’s suite was on the top floor of the hotel as befitted, if not a captain of industry, then the lawyer of a captain of industry. Cochran and I approached the car at the end of the bank of elevators, the one with a prominent sign that read Penthouse Floor Only. A uniformed elevator operator asked our names, then ushered us in after we provided them. He pushed the single button with one white-gloved finger. We ascended to the twelfth floor in silence. When the doors opened the operator accompanied us down the hallway. We stopped in front of suite 310, and the elevator operator knocked discreetly.

A few seconds later the door opened, and a tall, aristocratic looking man took a look at Cochran and me, then said to the operator, “Thank you, Louis.” The elevator operator nodded and left. Metcalf opened the door wider and motioned to us to come inside.

I have to admit, I had never been inside a penthouse suite before, and at first its opulence and crass ostentation made me speechless. I knew people, Mel and Alice Johnston, for example, whose entire house held less square footage than this penthouse suite.

We were in the foyer. A large living room lay in front of us while two hallways, one on each side, led to what I assumed were bedrooms. Our host walked past us into the living room, and we followed. There was a wide fireplace against one wall and a wet bar against another. I spotted a doorway next to the bar and could see a galley kitchen through it.

But it was the patio outside the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that struck me the most. The patio was easily forty or more feet square with sets of tables and chairs scattered about. I could see a fire pit and at least a dozen potted plants and small trees. Near the doors was a short putting green with a bag of golf clubs lying next to it. Beyond the edge of the patio, the city stretched out to the bay and its opposite shore like a painted backdrop.

My fascination with the view must have amused our host. “Would you care to step outside for a minute?” he asked with the boredom of a host trying to be gracious to someone he believes beneath his social class. Much as I hated to admit it, I did.

Metcalf walked over to the sliding door, opened it with an easy motion and stepped out onto the patio, not waiting or looking to see if I followed. The sixth-grader in me was tempted to slide the door closed behind him and lock it, but my grownup self followed him outside.

I squinted in the afternoon sun as a breeze brushed past my face and ruffled my hair. I heard the sound of traffic twelve stories below. Above our heads a jet growled as it passed in the distance, and a few birds gave throat. I took a deep breath and tasted the air. The scents of the city were still present but overshadowed by the smell of salt and sea from the bay.

Metcalf walked over to the low parapet that ran around the edge of the building, turned on his heel, and faced me with his arms wide. “What do you think, Mr. Smith? Worth a few thousand a day, don’t you think?”

I gave an uncommitted response and went back inside. This time it was Metcalf who followed me.

He closed the door and gestured to a set of chairs. “Shall we, gentlemen?” Once we were seated, Metcalf lost much of the confidence he’d portrayed minutes before.

“Agent Talbot’s death came as quite a shock, Agent Cochran,” he confessed. “I have to tell you that it causes me to doubt your agency’s ability to provide the protection from Wofe I was promised.”

Cochran spent the next few minutes trying to assure Metcalf that he would be well protected. I had to wonder myself how safe he really was, but it seemed to mollify him. Then Cochran switched gears. He dropped the photograph from the surveillance video on the coffee table. “Do you recognize this man?”

The effect on Metcalf was immediate. His face grew pale, and even though we were cocooned within his luxury hotel suite, he looked around as if expecting to see gunmen in every corner. “Well?” asked Cochran.

Metcalf swallowed. “Yes, I know him, or at least I know who he is.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve met him only once, that was at Wolfe’s estate on the island.”

He explained how he had just arrived for one of his monthly meetings with Wolfe, and it seemed the man in the photograph was just leaving. They passed each other in the doorway of Wolfe’s study. When Metcalf asked Wolfe about him, he told him the man was a fixer. “He told me Newcomb, that was the man’s name, and I are in the same business. I fix things via the law of the land, while Newcomb fixes things via the law of the jungle.”

Metcalf took a moment to gaze at the view outside the patio doors and then continued. “He left me no doubt as to the type of work Newcomb does.” His voice betrayed his worry.

“The impression you received was correct,” agreed Cochran. “Loren Newcomb is a professional hit man, one of the best and most expensive. His nickname is The Deacon.”

Cochran turned to me. “He’s also the one who killed Zager, Wolfe’s currier.”

Metcalf held up a hand. “Please, Agent Cochran. Until that letter of immunity is signed, sealed and delivered, I will not comment on any possible legal transgressions my client, Mister Wolfe, may or may not have committed.”

Metcalf probably meant that to be a close to our conversation, but I wasn’t ready to let that happen.

I turned to Cochran. “There’s another matter we need to discuss, isn’t there, Cochran?” My anger about Doris Whitaker finding out about my arrangement with Talbot was building again.

He nodded. “Mr. Metcalf, Agent Talbot told of Mr. Smith’s role, didn’t he?”

“You mean that he’s a pickpocket Talbot recruited to take Zager’s wallet?”

Cochran nodded.

Metcalf took an interest in his fingernails. “Yes, he told me, why?”

I banged a fist on the coffee table. As there were no coffee cups on it, and also as it was made of heavy glass and steel, there was only a quiet thud and a pain in my hand, not the effect I wanted.

“Because someone told Doris Whitaker, that’s why.”

“Doris Whitaker?” The name drew a blank with Metcalf.

“She’s the leader of the largest pickpocketing gang in the city,” explained Cochran. “She erroneously thinks that The Kid, Mr. Smith was working with us in an effort to build a case against her.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” He looked at me with some of his old disdain returning. “I have no knowledge of this Mrs. Whitaker nor of any other pickpockets in this town.” He sniffed. “And I wish to God I didn’t know you.” He got up. “If you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have an appointment in court in an hour for which I cannot be late.”

We stood and said our goodbyes and left.

We didn’t talk in the elevator going back down, the operator’s presence precluded that, but as soon as we made the lobby, we both spoke at the same time.

“What do you think?” Cochran asked as I asked him the same question. Cochran answered first.

“I think he’s scared. The photograph of that hit man of Wolfe’s really shook him.”

“The hell with that,” I said. “What about Doris? Do you think he tipped her off?” Cochran shook his head.

“I don’t see why. What would he gain by doing that? My guess is she heard it elsewhere on the street. I was probably seen going into The Book Nook by someone who recognized me as an FBI agent.”

We parted company at the corner of Market and Oak. Cochran had to meet yet again with the team investigating Talbot’s murder while I had books to shelve.

All in all, I think I had the better deal.

As promised, Mel came by the bookstore that evening. He and Barbara greeted each other with big hugs. They go back together to the days when Mel was a cop on the beat and Barbara’s store a hotbed of protest organizers. As a cop on street patrol back then, Mel was on the other side of the barricades, but during his off-hours he was a welcome worker at Barbara’s shop. He took a long look at the kitchen when he came in.

“I remember when that wall over there was stacked this high with protest signs nailed to sticks of wood.”

Barbara handed him a cup of tea. “Yes, and you were over there on the floor, nailing the signs to the sticks,” she said with a smile. “If you look, you’ll see there are still dents in the linoleum from your hammer.”

Mel walked over and squatted down. He ran one of his big hands over the floor and nodded. Junior took advantage of his position and strolled over so that Mel could have the honor of giving him a quick bit of petting.

We sat at the table once more, Lynn, Barbara, Mel and me. Cochran was gone, heading to the airport to meet the investigating team due in from Washington. Max and April were out at a book signing.

“Kid,” said Mel, getting down to business. “The chief is turning the investigation of Special Agent Talbot’s death over to the feds at their request. I offered to hand our side of it over to someone else in the department, given our friendship, but she said it’s not necessary, given that the feds are taking full charge.”

He stopped to take a sip of tea. “I don’t think you’ll be bothered much, based on Cochran’s statement that you didn’t arrive until after he found Talbot’s body.”

Then his face grew stern. “What I want to know, Kid, is what’s this I’ve heard about you going back to working the street as a pickpocket? One of the guys from the robbery detail gave me that bit of news this afternoon.”

I told Mel about the operation Talbot and Cochran were running and how, after trying to teach Cochran how to pickpocket, I’d stepped in to do it.

Mel shook his head. “I can’t believe they talked you into doing it, Kid. Do you have any idea of the risk you are running? Just because a fed gives you a get-out-of-jail-free card doesn’t mean the district attorney is going to respect it.”

It fell upon me to tell Mel about the hold Talbot had on Barbara. “Talbot had a warrant for Barbara’s arrest. He was holding it over our heads. That’s how he got me to agree to pretend to go back to picking pockets.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

We took turns explaining to Mel about James LeCuyer and the missing bank money from decades ago, as well as Talbot’s blackmail.

When we were done, he shook his head. “Well, with your cover blown, at least that part’s over.”

“That’s what we hope,” said Lynn. “Unfortunately, it’s already created trouble, and we’re not certain what to do about it.” We again took turns explaining how Doris Whitaker and her crew were on the warpath, believing me to be working with the local cops to bust her.

I had the fun of telling Mel about how Lynn rescued me from The Empire Room.

Mel studied Lynn with an amused smile. “Fishnet stockings, high heels and a short skirt, eh?”

Lynn stuck her tongue out at him. “Go ahead and picture it in your mind, ‘cause that’s the last time anyone will ever see me in a getup like that.” Her face became serious. “Mel, isn’t there anything you can do about Doris?”

Mel thought about it. “I’ll have a word with the robbery division. I know she’s been a thorn in the side of the department for years, but we’ve never been able to get anything on Doris herself, only the people working for her, and they’re too intimidated to testify against her.”

Mel stayed until close to eleven, chatting and catching up with us. Shortly after he left, Max and April came back. We all called out “Good night,” to Tom out front and headed up the stairs to our respective rooms.

Cochran came back around midnight. Lynn and I heard his feet on the stairs and as he proceeded down the hallway. He stopped outside our door and knocked softly. “Kid, Lynn, are you awake?”

“Come in,” I called.

He opened the door. Lynn switched on her bedside lamp, and we propped ourselves up on our pillows. Cochran stepped in. His face reddened when he saw us in bed.

“I’m sorry, I should have known you’d be asleep.”

“No problem,” I said. “What’s up with the team you had to meet? Did they arrive safe and sound?”

“Yes. They’d like the three of us to meet with them in the morning. We’ll meet them at their hotel at nine.”

Lynn stifled a yawn. “Me, too?”

Cochran saw Lynn’s bare shoulders and long black hair cascading on her pillow, and he looked away quickly. Lynn smiled.

“Yes, you too,” he answered. “Apparently Special Agent Riley briefed them before they left, and he spoke highly of your opinion on things.”

“What, and you don’t share that opinion?” Lynn teased.

“No, I mean yes. I mean,” he took a breath, “I share his regard.”

Lynn laughed at his discomfort and a second later threw a pillow, my pillow, at him. My head clunked against the headboard.

“Hey!” I shouted. I grabbed Lynn’s pillow out from under her. Cochran took advantage of our horseplay to make his escape, closing our bedroom door behind him.

Lynn, Cochran and I walked to The Broadmore the next morning. I was tempted to ask Cochran about the advisability of the agents investigating Talbot’s death staying in the same hotel in which he was murdered, but I decided against it. He might not have appreciated the humor.

The morning fall mists were still rising from the streets, and the scent of the night still lingered as we strolled down Knickerbocker Lane. Shops were opening their doors and setting out tables of sale items on the sidewalk. We had enough time that we were able to stop and chat with our neighbors, to compliment an attractive window display, to commiserate on a drop in business.