Nice Place for a Murder (6 page)

“Yes, look at him.” I said. “So Brody actually took charge right after the crash?”

“He did. As soon as he got the word about the crash, he chartered a plane to Utica. He was at Ingo’s bedside that night, and through the whole ordeal. In the hospitals and during the rehab, and ever since. That is, until now. Brody ran the company for Ingo until the day Ingo returned to the thirty-sixth floor. Loyalty to Ingo was how Brody got his own corner office. He’d been exec vp, but Ingo was so grateful, he made him president, and moved himself up to chairman.”

“So you’re telling me about Brody because — why?” I said.

“Because you asked me,”

“I mean, you think the problem between Brody and Ingo is Brody’s doing. Isn’t that what you said? ”

She got up from the sofa and came to my chair. “I think it’s Brody because I don’t think it’s Ingo. Here’s how it sorts out for me, Seidenberg, Hector feels you’re some kind of hero and that we should trust you. I’m telling you what I know because it just might tie in somehow, I’m not sure. I’m here to do what’s best for Julian Communications. Surely you don’t think I made the trip to get your fat ass into bed.”

“My lady friend tells me I drive women crazy,” I said. “But I’m taken.”

Lisa Harper was choosing from among the clever things she might reply when we heard the gunshot and the sound of shattering glass. Looking toward the noise, I saw shards fall from the front window. Someone had shot into the living room from the street directly in front of the house.

I pulled Lisa down, in a clumsy move that tripped her against my feet and brought her crashing against my stomach. “Get flat on the floor,” I told her, as I pulled myself from beneath her and started on all fours toward the light switch. I could hear the slap-click of a rifle bolt working on the street outside, the same lethal sound I’d heard across the water in this afternoon’s encounter. Same rifle, I thought. Same shooter.

“Stay down, hug the floor,” I called to Lisa. I reached up and snapped off the lights, throwing the room into blackness. I thought that would end it. No light, no targets. But the shooter wasn’t quitting just yet. I stole a quick look through the shattered window, and saw the silhouette of a figure against the streetlight outside, moving fitfully from one side of the front yard to the other, then back again. The impulsive type, erratic and unpredictable. Would he storm into the house?

I pulled Lisa to her feet. “You told me to hug the floor,” she said.

“New rules. Our friend may be coming in after us.”  Half pushing, half dragging, I got her onto the stairway to the second floor.

“Don’t you have a gun or something?” she said, stumbling to the top. “I thought investigators had guns.”

I felt the angina starting to creep up my chest as I scrambled after her. “I do. It’s in my bureau drawer,”

“Great place for it,” she said.

“You think I carry a gun, go around shooting people?” I led her down the black hallway into my bedroom and closed the door behind us.

“This might be a good time to start,” she said.

The angina was going quickly from grating to painful. This was not an insignificant episode. A nitroglycerine pill under my tongue would dilate my arteries and get me the blood flow for which my body was begging. But the pills were in my pocket or the medicine cabinet or someplace. Never had them when I needed them. Even in my condition, I knew that right now getting my hands on my .38 Police Special was the higher priority.

Straining for breath, I pulled open a bureau drawer and ran my hands under my shirts, searching for the weapon I hadn’t touched in years, It wasn’t there.

“I hear something downstairs.”  There was an uncharacteristic desperation in Lisa’s voice. “The gun, Seidenberg. Where’s that gun of yours?”

“I’m getting it,” I said, hoping I wasn’t lying. I tried to suck in the air to make the tightness across my chest go away. No help. I opened my sock drawer. No gun. This was not going well.

“I heard the door,” Lisa said. “He’s in the house.”

Now my ears started to ring. I pulled open another drawer and stuck my hand in. At last I felt the cold metal of the pistol. “Yes,” I said. “Under my shorts.”

“Of course. Where else would you keep a gun?”

“Next time I’ll look there first,” I said. “Stay here.”  I cocked the hammer of the .38, opened the bedroom door cautiously, and edged my way down the hall to the stairway. Peering over the top rail from a few steps back, I made out the form of a man framed in the open doorway to the porch below. Before I could decide what move would win me the upper hand without getting me killed, he reached to the wall and snapped on the lights.

Suddenly we were staring at each other, both squinting in the light. It was him, I was certain, gangly and remarkably broad from shoulder to shoulder, the shooter from the Lulu. Only now I was close enough to see his flat, homely face, close-set eyes, strings of yellow hair. And the tattoos, thick green and red snakes coiling their way down both his arms. He was some beauty.

He started to raise the rifle, but saw he was already squarely in the sights of my .38. In an instant he ducked out the door and took all four porch stairs in one leap. I could hear him running up the street, but I didn’t have the energy to chase him. It was all I could do to make my way down to the living room and out onto the porch.

From down by the water came the sound of a car starting. The shooter was gone into the night. Again he was beyond my reach.

Now I heard my neighbor calling to me from his front porch. He was in his pajamas. “Ben, you all right? Was that a shot I heard?”

“I heard it, too. Firecracker, I think.  I can still smell it in the air. There were kids out here. Ran away.” I could only hope he’d buy into it. If he got antsy and called the cops, the episode could end up in the newspapers, and nobody wanted that right now — not Hector or Ingo or me. “Seems quiet now,” I said, trying to sound unconcerned.

“Damn kids around here are a pain in the ass,” my neighbor said. “‘Night.” I heard his front door shut.

Lisa was sitting on the bottom stair inside the house. I barely noticed her as I fell back into the easy chair and closed my eyes, the pistol still in my hand. In my head I conjured up the image of my own circulatory system, churning away fitfully inside my body.  Mentally, I willed the functions to return to normal. I read somewhere once that if you focus, you can do that with your body, think it and make it happen. It seemed to work. Or maybe just sitting there quietly had something to do with it.

“I’m a believer.” Lisa finally broke the silence. “Something bad is going on.”

“Bad doesn’t begin to cover it,” I said.

“Was he trying to shoot me, do you think? Or was he after you? Or both of us?”

“Can’t tell yet. He was the same guy who shot at me out on the water today. Maybe he felt like finishing the job. Or maybe he’s somebody with a grudge against Julian Communications and wants to knock off the top people. Of which you happen to be one.” My head was still back, my eyes closed. “Of course, you were alone on my porch before I got here. For how long?”

“Maybe forty-five minutes,” she said.

“He could have come after you then, easy. Maybe he followed you here to find where I live, then waited for me to show up.”

“Why follow me? You’re right there in the phonebook, easy to find.”

“Right. If he knew my name, somehow,” I said. Then, “I got a good look at the guy tonight. I have no idea who he is.”

“He’s still out there,” she said.

“You bet he is. And he may want me. He may want you. Or Ingo or Hector. Or all of us. No way to know yet. This is a dangerous guy. I saw him pacing around in the front yard after he shot out the window. A wild man. You should have protection.”

“And you?”

I held up the gun. “I’ve got this.”

“In your bureau drawer, under your shorts.”

“No, it’s in my hand now, and I intend to keep it close.” I pulled myself out of the chair and walked unsteadily to where she sat. “Any reasonable person would bring the cops in. But if I do, Ingo will blame Empire Security for letting bad news get out and screwing up the IPO. He’ll fire us, and I’ll spend the rest of my life in poverty and desperation”

“What are you talking about, Seidenberg?”

“Just the ramblings of a man who’s been shot at twice in one day. Look, I can’t simply do nothing about all this. It’s my ass getting shot at, too — my fat ass, as you put it so delicately.”

“A figure of speech,” she said. “Nothing personal. Your ass isn’t that fat.”

“Whatever.” I offered her my hand. She took it and got to her feet. “Ingo doesn’t want to listen to me because he’s afraid I’ll rock his corporate boat,” I said. “Go tell Hector what happened to you tonight. Tell him I want to put some Empire people on the scene, here, and in New York, too. People who carry guns. We’ll do it discreetly, tell him, and Ingo won’t know they’re around. Will you do that?”

“I’ll tell him.” 

I checked my watch. “The ferry is going to stop running for the night. You’d better not go back to Shelter by yourself, and walking alone is out of the question. So I and my revolver are going to drive you onto the ferry and deliver you directly to Ingo’s door.”

She put her hands on my shoulders. “Are you as good as Hector says you are? Smart and strong? What do you think?”

“Look, Iron Lady, I’d be flattered to have you kiss me again, but it complicates the hell out of my established relationship. Nothing personal. So you can adore me if you must, but mostly from afar.”

“In that case, I take back what I said about you.”

“What?”

“That your ass isn’t that fat. Let’s be honest. It really is.”

CHAPTER VI

The autumn fog that hung across the bay was so heavy I could barely make out the contour of Shelter Island from Wally’s Marina, a distance of three quarters of a mile. If I were going out fishing, I’d play it cautious, keep the Elysium safe in the slip and drink coffee for an hour, until I was sure the morning sun was well on its way to burning off the mist. The sun’s supposed to do that, but sometimes it refuses. I don’t like fog, anyway, not since it unexpectedly descended on me in Plum Gut one afternoon, and the New London ferry coming across Long Island Sound passed Elysium’s stern with fifteen feet to spare.

But the fog was no threat today because the Elysium wasn’t going fishing, or anywhere. When I arrived at the slip, a mechanic was busy cementing a new piece of glass into the windshield frame, and hadn’t yet started on the broken gas line.

Wally stood next to me looking into the boat, his thumbs hooked into his belt. “He’s got another hour, maybe two.”

“At seventy-five bucks an hour,” I said.

“Eighty-five.  Plus parts.” He pointed to the stern.  ”You know the bullet tore out a plug of fiberglass? Not all the way through, though. Way above the waterline. No big deal. We’ll patch it when we put her away for the winter.” Wally turned and walked up the ramp to the yard. I followed. “Listen, amigo, I asked everybody here if they knew a commercial boat named Lulu. Nothing Then I called marina guys I know in Sag Harbor, Orient, Shinnecock, Mattituck, Jamesport. More nothing. Now, there’s a lot more marinas than that around here, but I don’t know all those guys.” He took a box of black Napoli cigars out of his shirt pocket, shook one out and lit it, cupping his hands around the flame of the match. He took a big drag and let the pungent smoke out, making me regret I was standing near him in the still air. “One thing, though.”

“And that is?”

“There is a Lulu. But this Lulu isn’t the boat you’re looking for, it’s an actual live woman, Lulu Lumpkin.”

“Really? Lulu Lumpkin? Unfortunate name.”

“She’s been around for years. Everybody knows about her. Owns a bar on the South Fork, in Shinnecock. Runs the place herself. Kind of a shit-hole where the commercial salts hang out for their shots and beers. I stopped in for a drink with a guy one time, asked for a martini. She made it for me, said it was the first martini’d been ordered there in nine years. Gives you an idea. Es muy colorful, I suppose, but you have to be pretty desperate for some sauce to belly up to Lulu’s bar. Anyhow, she’s not a boat, is she?”

“Maybe somebody likes her enough to name a boat after her,” I said.

“I already talked to Bill Evans at the Shinnecock marina. If there’s a commercial boat called Lulu anyplace around there, he’d know. I’m not so sure Lulu Lumpkin’s the kind of woman somebody’d name their boat after. She’s not a great beauty, and no kid, either. Tough old broad.”

“Could be you’re right,” I said. “But Lulu’s such a curious name these days. Kind of old-time stuff, right? I mean, did you ever know anybody else actually named Lulu?”

“No. So?”

“Such an offbeat name. I know it’s a stretch, but what the hell. It’s a place to start. Only one I have,” I said. “What time does she open, you think?”

“First thing in the morning. Her customers, some of ‘em, their breakfast is a cup of coffee and a shot of Seagrams Seven.” He looked at his watch, raising up his cigar hand and giving me another whiff that distinctive Napoli aroma. “She’s been serving for a couple hours already.”