Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (12 page)

“That wasn't you?” Brodsky's voice was flat.

Suddenly rage overcame terror, and I was yelling at the top of my voice. “For heaven’s sake, I was only here for a few minutes! I’m not Superwoman! I didn’t kill Dot, and I didn’t slash his pictures or rip the photos of those girls in half either, and I didn’t bleed all over them.”

I had his attention now. “What pictures?”

“These, Sergeant.” A detective wearing rubber gloves, carefully holding the photos by the edges, set the pile on the coffee table. They were jumbled together so that the halves didn’t match up. “Found them scattered by the bureau.”

“That's Jeanine Gray,” I almost shouted, pointing to one lovely face that still had an intact nose. “Rich used her for a lipstick spread. And this,”—-I pointed to another with a blood smear across the cheek,-—” this is Helga Swenson. Meg, remember my telling you about her?”

Meg, her face white, reached out to pick up the pictures.

“Don’t touch,” Brodsky warned, stopping her hands.

Just then the door to the bedroom opened. I looked up in time to see Dot’s corpse, in a body bag, wheeled out into the hall. The dizziness I’d been battling dimmed the room, and I must have made some sound because I felt strong hands push my head down between my knees and heard Brodsky’s voice, surprisingly gentle now, telling me to take deep breaths. Minutes later I was pushed back onto the couch and I felt hands placing a wet cloth on my forehead. From somewhere in outer space, I heard Brodsky telling Meg to take me home as soon as I was feeling well enough. “Stay with her overnight if you can. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

Later, Meg helped me up, and we made our way past the detective dusting for fingerprints, to the elevator. I prayed that the killer had been careless—-that mine wouldn't be the only prints he lifted.

MEG STAYED OVER.

She told Matt and Allie I wasn't feeling well and let me soak in the tub while she whipped up dinner. I didn’t have to face my children until their stomachs were full and they’d been given the bare facts about the day’s events.

“Where could Dad be, Mom?” Matt wanted to know. “Why doesn’t he call?”

“I don't know, honey. But I'm sure he's okay.” I was amazed that the words came out of my mouth actually sounding coherent.

“How do you know?” Allie quavered.

If Rich was all right, he wasn’t going to be when I got through with him. What was I supposed to tell my children? I believe in honesty. Fantasies can be worse than reality.

“Well, I don't really know for sure, Allie,” I replied finally. “You have to remember, Dad's in shock. He probably just wanted to be by himself for a while. When he hears about—-about today, he'll show up.”

Meg herded them upstairs and, incredibly, got them started on homework. Then we sat in the living room and while I absently stroked Placido, we decided on a course of action.

“You've got to talk to a lawyer,” Meg said.

“I know. Tomorrow I’m going to call this guy I went to college with. I came across his name in the Journal a while ago.”

“You aren't going to call one of the lawyers I told you about?”

“I thought I’d try Steve first. He always liked me. If he remembers me, maybe he’ll give me a break, price wise.”

“Forget the money. I'll lend you the money.”

I squeezed her hand. “Thanks, but I think I should give this a shot.”

“But you can’t hire just anybody. This is too serious. You need somebody really top.”

“He’s not just anybody. His name’s Ehrlich of Ehrlich, Ehrlich, and Coretti. The article said he and his brother recently defended somebody in the Mafia and got him off.”

“Oh well, what better recommendation.”

“At least there’s a personal connection. Every time I talk to Arthur I hear the meter ticking. He makes me feel as if I’m just part of his car payment. I’ll be more comfortable dealing with Steve than a stranger.”

“How do you know he’s any good? Just because--”

“How do I know those other lawyers are good?”

“Because I got their names from a reliable source.”

“What reliable source?”

Meg concentrated on pulling a loose thread through the sleeve of her sweater and did what she always did when I got personal. Avoided answering. And capitulated.

“Do what you think best then,” she said. “If this guy's firm represents Mafia types, I suppose they must be pretty sharp.”

It wasn’t exactly the kind of company I wanted to be keeping, but she had a point.

I was about to pursue the subject of her reliable source when the brandy I’d been sipping hit me like a tranquilizer dart. I lay my head back and closed my eyes.

"Go on up to bed," Meg said. “I'll see to the kids.”

What does it matter who her sources are?
I thought wearily as I tucked Placido under my arm and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.
I don't care if her reliable source is Jack the Ripper. All that matters is she's a damned good friend, and I'm lucky to have her.

Not bothering to dislodge Horty from where he lay sprawled across the bottom half of my bed, I curled into a fetal position and drifted off.

STEVE EHRLICH’S OFFICE was on Fifty-fifth and the Avenue of the Americas in the MGM building. I spent twenty minutes looking for a parking space and ended up in a garage that charged twenty-five dollars for the first hour.

I’d gotten right through to Steve when I'd called his office early that morning. He remembered me and sounded pleased to hear from me. I'd told him only that I was in trouble, I needed professional advice, and he fit me right in. We'd made an appointment for eleven.

I had dressed carefully, even putting a few rollers in my hair in an attempt to give it the bounce it used to have when I was in college. I selected a royal blue linen suit that accentuates my eyes and in which I’ve always felt attractive. Today it hung loosely, and I had to pin in the waistband. It fit me the way Brodsky’s clothes fit him. Maybe we had something in common. We both lost weight under stress. Briefly, I wondered if his stress was job-related or if there was another reason.

I arrived at Steve's office breathless, with less than a minute to spare. The reception area reeked of success. I recognized a prominent television actor’s photograph on the wall, with a little note appended above his autograph, thanking Dan and Steve Ehrlich and their dedicated staff for “their competence, friendship and support.” A ficus bloomed happily in an antique oriental planter near the window. My two-inch heels almost drowned in the mauve carpet. I decided Steve was doing very well indeed. Chances were I couldn’t afford him.

When the receptionist announced me, Steve bounded out of his office and threw his arms around me.

“Carrie! Little Carrie Carlin.” My feet dangled above the carpet as he whirled me around. “What a wonderful surprise, hearing your voice after all these years.”

“It’s great seeing you too, Steve,” I gasped. He put me down and flustered, I fussed with my hair and patted it back into place.

Steve isn't what you'd call handsome or sexy. When we were in school he’d had a crush on me but his mouth always reminded me of Bugs Bunny. I'd never felt inclined to kiss it. Still, he has a nice face—-one of those freckled little-boy cherubic visages that never seem to grow older. I could see where that would stand him in good stead in a courtroom. What jury would vote against Bugs Bunny?

Arm around my shoulder, he led me into his office, as elegant as the reception area. He sat next to me on the soft green leather sofa instead of taking a seat behind his burled walnut desk.

“How long has it been? Fifteen years? You’ve hardly changed.”

I tried to smile. It was more like twenty years, and I felt as though I’d aged an additional ten in the past five days.

“What’s the matter, Carrie?” he inquired with such concern on his round face, two big tears escaped and rolled down my cheeks.

Damn, I thought digging in my pocket for a tissue. One word of kindness from any source, and I leak like a dripping faucet.

Steve was a good listener. He didn’t interrupt as I recounted the extraordinary events of the past week. As I spoke, he made notes on a legal pad.

“I read about the Vogel murder, but I didn’t connect the name Burnham with you.”

“I wish I hadn’t connected the name Burnham with me.”

He patted my hand sympathetically. “You’ve had a bad time, but it’s going to get better.”

He was as nice as I’d remembered, and I found myself opening up. “The worst of it is, I loved Rich. I never saw it coming. Until that last year when he changed so dramatically, I really believed we had something special.”

“His loss. You’re a special lady.”

Now why couldn’t I have fallen for this guy when I had the chance?

“Stop,” I murmured. “You’ll start me blubbering.”

“I have a broad shoulder.”

“What I need is your legal expertise.”

He hesitated. “How are you left financially?”

Uh-oh.
My eyes wandered to the Lichtenstein hanging over his desk. “I’m managing. I used to work at a pain center, but a few months after Rich left I started my own practice. Rich hasn’t been bad about money. He’s agreed to pay a small alimony for several years until I can build my practice, and he’s responsible for child support till Matt and Allie are through college. It’s not like when we were married, of course, but--”

“Come on,” Steve said, holding out his hand and rising. “Let’s have lunch, and work out a strategy.”

“You’re going to represent me?” I could feel Atlas’ globe being lifted off my shoulders.

He squeezed my hand. “Of course. We alums have to stick together. And stop worrying. From what you’ve told me you haven’t even been charged with anything.”

Involuntarily, I glanced at his left hand, noted he wasn’t wearing a wedding band. I looked on his desk. There was a framed photograph of a pretty smiling woman and two little girls. So much for the fleeting thought.

“Maybe we should discuss your fee first.”

I knew this was sticky ground. He was a partner in a firm. Even if he wanted to give me a break, I wasn’t sure he had the authority to do it.

“I get five hundred dollars an hour.”

I blanched. He might as well have said a thousand. “I’m afraid I can’t...”

“Don’t worry. We’ll work something out.”

I flashed him a suspicious look but saw only friendly concern in his eyes.

We lunched at Sushiden, a pricey Japanese restaurant on East Forty-ninth Street. The ambience, Steve’s warmth, the sake all combined to make me feel as though someone had slid little fur muffs over my frazzled nerve endings. We talked about normal things-—college, professors, classmates we remembered; we traded anecdotes about clients—-we’d both had our share of kooks over the years, and our children; we both had two.

“I’ve always missed having a son,” Steve remarked as the waitress was bringing our green tea. “You're lucky you have one of each.”

“You can’t make me feel sorry for you,” I said. “Everyone knows daughters dote on their daddies. You’ve got three beautiful women spoiling you rotten.”

He covered my hand with his. “Only two, I'm afraid. Lenore and I—-well, things aren’t the way they used to be.”

The fur muffs started shredding around the edges. I focused on my sushi. “I really love this stuff. Haven’t had it in a while, though. My kids aren’t into raw--”

“We've grown apart over the years. You know how it is.”

Clang, clang
went the warning bells, “No,” I said. “Tell me.”

“It’s not Len. Believe me, I don’t have a bad word to say about her, but our lives have gone in different directions.”

“In what way?”

“I think she’s come to hate what I do. When I was representing Tony the Toad, there were nights I was literally afraid to go home.” He grinned that rabbit grin. “And it wasn’t the mob I was afraid of.”

“I seem to remember in college and law school you were really gung ho about putting the mob behind bars. Whatever happened to all that idealism?”

“I was a kid. I’ve changed. Shit happens, you know?”

I certainly did. I knew all about shit. The hum of the other patrons receded as I flashed back to Rich's words to me that last night.

“It’s not you,"
he’d mumbled miserably
. "You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me. Shit happens. People change.”

I looked across the table at Steve. His soft brown eyes had gone beady, his Bugs Bunny teeth grown to monster proportions. “I liked that kid,” I said, reaching for my handbag.

“I always had a thing for you too, Carrie.” His hand dropped to my thigh.

I slapped it away as though it were a crawling bug. “You should think hard about what you're doing. Divorce is a nightmare.”

He looked shocked. “Who said anything about divorce?”

“Oh, I see. Fooling around’s okay, though.”

“What’s the big deal? No one has to get hurt.”

“Except your wife when she finds out. And your kids. And the really nice guy you used to be.” I got to my feet. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Oh, lighten up, Car. You know as well as I do, a little hanky-panky holds more marriages together than you women want to admit.”

Wrong buttons! I controlled an urge to pour the green tea down his pants. “You think getting some Mafia sleazebag off makes you hot stuff, don’t you?” I said. “The truth is, it really makes you no better than he is. You’re just cheating the system like you’ve cheated your wife and kids.” People were staring. My voice went up a decibel. “And if you’re going to cheat, at least have the guts to call it what it is. Hanky-panky is so high school.”

I walked out of the restaurant.

ONCE OUT OF THE CITY I opened the windows and let the fresh spring air clear my head. I was glad I’d spoken my piece. In retrospect I decided I’d deserved what I’d gotten for considering hiring a Mafia lawyer in the first place. Fortunately, I had Meg’s recommendations in reserve. I made a mental note to call her.

The evening was going to be a busy one. I’d canceled my morning appointments, planning to start at four and work till eight or nine. Most of my patients had been cooperative about rescheduling. No one had brought up the murders. Maybe, like that slime-bucket Steve, they hadn’t made the connection. I’d arranged for the kids to have dinner at the Moscone’s, scheduled my overeaters from four to five-thirty, planned a half hour for dinner, had one patient coming at six and one at seven. No one at eight.