Smart vs. Pretty (20 page)

T
wo fifty-six Hicks Street was a typical Victorian brownstone, built sometime at the turn of the century. Atypical of the neighborhood, however, were the heavy, dark curtains that covered all the windows on each floor.

“Maybe the people who live here are light-sensitive,” Amanda suggested. “Photophobic.”

Matt said, “You just made up that word.”

“I did not.” Actually, she wasn’t sure.

“They’re not light-sensitive,” he said. “They don’t want anyone knowing their business.”

Amanda buzzed Todd Phearson’s first-floor apartment. A woman’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Hello?” It sounded like Sylvia, but Amanda wasn’t sure. They’d spoken only briefly.

“Hello. It’s Amanda Greenfield. I’m here to see Todd Phearson.”

Static. It had to be Sylvia. She must hate me, thought Amanda. She wondered if Paul had called ahead to warn his wife and father-in-law. No matter. A warning wouldn’t have done much good. Todd had to see Amanda. It was about money. As for Sylvia, it wasn’t Amanda’s responsibility to make her understand the truth about her friendship—now over—with Paul. Amanda buzzed again. The intercom said, “Amanda?” It was Todd. “This isn’t the time and place to do business.”

“I’ve got the money, Todd. All fifty-five thousand.”

The door lock released. Matt pushed it open and stepped aside to let Amanda enter first. It was very gallant of him. Todd was standing inside his apartment, the door opened just a wedge. He nodded and said, “Amanda.” She introduced Matt as her partner. Todd nodded at him.

“May we come in?” she asked, looking down at their reluctant host’s scalp.

“This is very unseemly. I don’t know this man. He could be dangerous,” said Todd. To Matt, he asked, “Are you carrying a gun?”

Amanda said, “He’s just glad to see you.”

Matt said, “Why do you assume I’m dangerous? Because of the way I look? Too scruffy around the edges for a man of your distinction? Who’d have thought that someone who dresses like you would be a thief and an extortionist?”

“I resent—”

Amanda said, “Do you want your money or not?”

“Of course I want my money,” he said.

“May we come in?” Amanda asked again.

Grudgingly he stepped back and let them enter. The decoration in Todd’s apartment fit the era. He’d painted the walls pastel green. The couches (three in the front room of the huge parlor-level floor) were all covered with heavy brocade fabric. The legs of the couches had lion’s paws, like a bathtub, as did the cedar coffee table. The Oriental rug on the floor was magnificent—hand-stitched, at least fifteen feet long and ten feet wide. The colors—burgundy, brown, dark green—were too somber for Amanda’s taste, but it was undeniably authentic, must have cost him twenty thousand dollars. Amanda wondered if her parents had ever seen this place. She knew they’d have hated the overdone opulence. Matt seemed turned off, too.

Amanda said, “Sumptuous rug, Todd.”

“It’d be a lot nicer if the dog hadn’t peed on it.” Suddenly a little Jack Russell terrier came bounding toward them from the back of the apartment. He ran right up to Amanda. Dogs loved her. Animals communed with her on a cosmic level.

She said, “Hello, lamb chop,” and bent down to let the dog sniff her hand. He sniffed, flexed his lip muscles, and then snapped at her. Luckily Amanda’s reflexes hadn’t been frozen in the cold, and she yanked her hand away just in time.

“It’s my daughter’s dog,” Todd said, as if that explained its actions. Amanda flashed to her run-in with Sylvia in her lobby. That’s right: she knew she’d seen this dog before. Todd yelled, “Sylvia! Restrain your cur.”

Skittish, dirty-blond Sylvia appeared instantly from the hallway, as if she’d been lurking there, eavesdropping. Amanda smiled brightly at her. She’d been as much a victim as anyone.

Amanda said, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Sylvia said, “Come on, Rover.” Completely ignoring Amanda’s greeting, she snagged her pooch of the flying jowls by the collar and scurried back into the hall with him.

“Now,” Todd said, sitting down on his plushest couch. His feet dangled off the edge. “The money?”

Amanda handed Todd the yellow telegram. He said, “What’s this?” He read it. “That’s very exciting. Congratulations, Amanda. You’ll have something to fall back on. I told you I wanted cash. This slip of paper proves nothing.”

“It’s after banking hours,” said Amanda. “I’ll write you a check.”

He shook his balding head. “Cash or nothing, Amanda.” He slid off the couch onto his tiny feet. “You must think I’m a complete idiot. That you can come to my house, say you have the money, and offer to write a check? I don’t believe this hoax. And I don’t have time for nonsense. I’ll be at the Heights Cafe in an hour. If you have the money, as you claim, bring it—in cash—to the restaurant. I’ll even give you until five-thirty. And I’ll bet free dinners for everyone in the neighborhood that you won’t make it.”

Amanda’s stomach sank to her ankles. She breathed in, out, in, out, fighting to retain composure. She said, “Dinner for everyone in the neighborhood. You’re on.”

Matt and Amanda left. She had no idea what to do. It was well after 3:00
P.M
.; the banks were closed. Would they have time to withdraw thousands and thousands of dollars at an ATM? Did ATMs have that much money in their slots? Matt said, “There’re a Citibank and a Chase by the Rite Aid. In the two banks, there must be fifteen ATMs.” Amanda and Matt ran toward bank row on Montague Street. The air temperature must have dropped five degrees in the last fifteen minutes. Amanda’s fingers stiffened in her coat. They arrived at the Chase branch at just after 3:45.

“We should go to the Citibank so I don’t have to pay an additional fee of a dollar-fifty per transaction,” said Amanda.

Matt said, “Just get in there.”

After waiting about five minutes in line, Amanda took her turn at an ATM and frantically punched her PIN number, 424464 (“I Ching”). She requested a cash withdrawal of five hundred dollars.

Matt said, “What are you doing? Ask for five thousand.”

Amanda added a zero to her request, and they waited. A message appeared on the screen, instructing them that they couldn’t take out more than two thousand dollars at a time. Amanda altered her request, and the money came spilling out of the cash slot. She was dazzled to see so much green, all in crisp new hundred-dollar bills. She put the money in her pocket and tore out the receipt. She handed it to Matt and began punching numbers again.

Matt said, “Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“This receipt says the balance is only nineteen thousand dollars!”

“That’s impossible.” Amanda punched the touch screen to get information. Sure enough, she saw the record of the day’s transactions, from the wire of eighty thousand dollars, to the dozens of ATM withdrawals of two thousand dollars apiece.

“Frank’s been here. She’s got the money. We have to find her,” said Amanda. “She must be on her way to see Todd.” Had they passed Frank on the street? What was going on? How did Frank know about the deposit? This was an unorganized mess.

“Should I redeposit this money?” Amanda asked of the two thousand dollars in her pocket. She turned nervously to the half-dozen people standing in line in the maze of metal bars.

“Hold on it. We may need mad money,” said Matt. “You think Frank’s at the Heights Cafe?” His voice was shaky. For all his apparent disinterest, Matt was nervous about his money.

Amanda gave him a quick hug. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Frank has the money. It’s in safe hands. She’s probably giving it to Todd right now.”

“No, she’s not,” said a loud voice behind them. Amanda turned to see who was speaking, and was shocked to see Sylvia McCartney standing at the head of the ATM maze, holding a sharp, foot-long butcher knife in one hand, the dog’s leash in the other. Rover, sensing the energy of the moment (or keeping up appearances), snarled.

The half-dozen people who’d been in line, and the three people currently using ATMs, assessed the situation, and decided it’d be prudent to vanish. Once they’d hustled themselves out of the vestibule, Sylvia jammed the bank door from the inside. The three of them—Amanda, Matt, and Sylvia, oh, make that four, counting Rover—were now alone.

Matt said, “Maybe we should have gone to Citibank.”

W
ith the Kate Spade bag bursting with greenbacks, Frank got in the police car and sped to the same Court Street precinct where she’d directed Clarissa not twenty minutes before.

Frank had been in the white-elephant municipal building before, when she’d been called for jury duty. Upon entering and passing through the metal detectors (Detective Luigi and his partner, a larger man with a spotty beard, set off beeps and whistles, which were ignored by the uniformed officer manning the station), Frank was led down a hall and into a small reception area. She was directed to sit at a wooden plank bench against a lime green wall, while the detectives walked through a large oak door marked
NO ADMITTANCE
.

To her delight (then quickly dismay), Clarissa O’MacFlanahagan was seated at the same bench, waiting for her audience with the attempted murderer, Piper Zorn. Frank thought she looked ludicrously out of place with her faux fur and perfectly disarranged hair.

Clarissa stood and gave Frank a tight embrace. “Francesca, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “They’ve refused to let me see Piper. And they’ve been making me sit out here for hours.” More like thirty minutes. “I can’t bear to suffer this kind of treatment.”

“It’s downright criminal.”

“It is.”

They sat. Frank clutched the Kate Spade tote against her chest. Clarissa asked, “Is the money inside there? All fifty-five thousand?”

Frank nodded. “I’m not very comfortable carrying this much cash with so many lawyers, jurors, and cops around, to say nothing of the indicted.”

“Did you take out my fifteen hundred?”

Frank nodded. She’d taken out an additional two thousand dollars for emergencies. She reached into the bag and counted out Clarissa’s remaining payment. She handed it to the comely blonde, satisfied that she was officially free of Clarissa.

“Thanks,” said the blonde, folding the bills into a wad and stuffing them into her coat pocket. “That bag costs three hundred dollars.”

Frank peeled off another three bills for Clarissa. “We’re square now. I guess we have no reason to stay in contact.” She was relieved to say it.

Clarissa tightened her frosty lips and said, “We don’t. But do me one favor: tell Amanda I’ll call her next week.”

Frank would do nothing of the kind. She didn’t think Clarissa would actually call anyway. And Amanda wouldn’t dare make plans with her. “I’d be happy to pass on the message,” she said to end the conversation.

The large oak door opened a crack. Detective Luigi’s mustache, and then the rest of his face, peeked out of the wedge of space. “Ms. Greenfield. Please come in.”

Frank stood and walked through the door. She was suddenly bombarded with noise. The level of activity and randomness reminded Frank of the
Post
offices, with men in and out of uniform talking, answering phones, waving files of papers all over the place. Blinking computers, gun holsters, and guns were everywhere. The detective asked her to sit at a large oak desk in the rear of the room. He asked her if she’d like some coffee. “What do you have?” she asked.

“Burned and not quite burned,” he said.

“I’ll try the latter,” she answered.

The detective asked, “Why are you carrying around a pocketbook full of cash?”

“This looks a bit suspicious, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll let you think of an answer while I get your coffee.”

Instead, while she waited, her thoughts turned to Walter. So he was in the hospital. He’d called her from his bed to beg forgiveness. Amanda, with this knowledge, would probably be at the hospital by now, soaking his sterile white sheets with her globular tears.

The detective returned with a full Styrofoam cup—porous and gritty, it was possibly the worst vessel for coffee. Frank dared to take a sip. Canned, of course, and unpalatable. A steady diet of this charred fluid would destroy anyone’s taste for coffee. “As I mentioned on the street,” said Frank, “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I have an urgent appointment at five o’clock.”

“Making a drop?”

“Yes, actually.”

He said, “Not even curious why Mr. Zorn tried to murder your lover?”

Frank leveled her brown eyes at him. “Walter Robbins is not my lover.”

Detective Luigi picked up a sheet of yellow paper off his desk. It was covered with chicken scratch. Frank had been able to decipher some of it: she knew it was a signed confession from Piper Zorn. “May I read some of this to you?” he asked. Frank nodded. Whatever would speed this up. “You know what I think? You’re a lot more interested than you’re acting. You really do care about Walter Robbins—a lot—and you’re pretending not to as self-preservation.”

“A police detective and a psychologist,” Frank said. “To be honest, I’m too distracted to let myself care right now. I’m a linear thinker—I’m not entirely sure my right-and left-brain hemispheres are connected neurologically at all—unusual for a woman, I know. I’ve got important business to attend to, as I’ve already said. Once that’s concluded, I’ll cry and cry and cry about Walter. So if you’ll skip the analysis, we can get through what needs to be done here and I can go.”

The detective said, “Would you verify some facts?”

Frank tapped her fingers on the Kate Spade bag. “My pleasure.”

“Zorn claims to have met Robbins outside the Romancing the Bean coffee bar at two-thirty this morning,” said the detective while consulting the sworn statement. “The purpose of the meeting was for Robbins to divulge any and all information he’d learned about you, Ms. Greenfield, to use in a newspaper article. Zorn wanted bank records, diary entries. The plan was for Robbins to steal documents from your apartment. Zorn would photograph the papers, and then Robbins would return the documents as soon as he could so you’d never miss them. Robbins met Zorn as planned, but instead of bringing materials, he told Zorn he was out. He didn’t want to do the story anymore. He’d quit his job if he had to. Zorn pressed Robbins for information and some was exchanged, but not enough. Zorn was furious. Robbins walked toward the subway. Zorn followed him. They argued onto the subway platform. Robbins threatened to discuss Zorn’s inappropriate methods with the paper’s managing editor. Zorn was so enraged that he pushed Robbins off the platform. He said he didn’t realize the train was coming. The train conductor saw him and pulled the emergency break. That’s why Robbins is alive.”

Walter wanted to quit his job for me? thought Frank. “Could Piper get the death penalty for this?” she asked.

“Not for attempted murder,” said the detective. “And Zorn seems contrite. I’ve never seen a grown man bawl so hard.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t verify the time Walter left our apartment. He did tell Zorn some things I’d told him in confidence, but I doubt Walter stole anything. You have the article from the
Post
this morning?” Detective Luigi nodded. “The byline is Walter’s, but Zorn wrote it.”

“We know that already. Robbins was in no condition to write anything this morning.” The detective rubbed under his mustache for a few seconds while Frank sat motionlessly. He said, “You’re a peculiar woman, Ms. Greenfield.”

“May I go now?”

Detective Luigi said, “I have to admit that I was hoping you’d want to press charges against Mr. Zorn for slander.”

“Is that option closed if I leave now?”

“No,” he said. “Zorn had it out for you. I’d like to know why.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Not yet.”

“He’d know better than I would,” she said and stood. She checked her watch: 4:45. “I really have to leave.”

The detective nodded slowly, stroking his mustache. “We’ll be in touch. And be careful with all that money.”

Frank ran out of the building, passing Clarissa on the way without saying a word, and rushed up Montague Street toward the Heights Cafe. As she ran, frosty air filled her lungs.

Walter cared, she thought. He genuinely cared.