The Morning Show Murders (1) (26 page)

I nodded. A mistake. That razored tennis ball started bouncing again.

"I better get down to deal with the cops," Maxwell said, moving to the elevator he'd locked there with its door open.

"Why did you call 'em?" I asked.

"I didn't. They phoned me on the night line. Said they got an anonymous call reporting a break-in at six-D. Did I know anything about it? I told 'em I didn't know nothing, and they said to keep an eye out but not to go investigate myself. They were sending some officers to check it out.

"Gotta go, chef," he said, running to the elevator. "Good luck."

I thanked him, then slid along the wall to the door leading to the service stairwell.

It was dimly lit and smelled of disinfectant.

I grabbed the handrail and descended the stairs slowly and carefully. I felt like such a fool that if I'd had a spare foot, I would have used it to kick my own ass on every step. Down all six floors.

A.W. was in my office at the Bistro.

"He just walked in," he said into the cell phone pressed against his ear. He stared at me while whoever was on the other end of the line had their say, then added, "Okay, Lee, I'll take care of it."

He closed the phone and slipped it into his jacket pocket. His expression showed more disappointment than annoyance. "You put me on the bad side of my boss," he told me.

"That's because he's an inconsiderate bastard," Cassandra said. She was sitting to my left in the corner of the room. Her eye makeup was smudged.

"Have you been crying?" I asked.

"You didn't answer your phone. I thought you'd been killed, you asshole."

"Well, I did get my skull cracked, if it's any consolation."

"Damn you, Billy," she said, rising quickly from the chair and walking toward me. Studying my head, she added, "You could have a concussion. Move under the light."

I moved near the light, and she stared into my eyes for a few beats. "Looks okay, but you can't always tell. You feeling dizzy?"

"I'm feeling pain."

"Turn," she ordered. I obeyed, and she examined my wound. "There're two lumps here, one small and one big and bleeding slightly."

"People seem to like hitting me on the head lately," I said.

"I'm next, you pull another stupid stunt like this," she said. "Where the hell is your first-aid kit?"

"Down the hall in the bathroom," I said. "Under the washbasin. And some aspirin, please."

Watching her go fetch, A.W. asked, "What the hell happened, Billy?"

"Aspirin first," I said. I sank to the nearest chair and waited for Cassandra to return. When she did I took the pill bottle, knocked a couple into my palm, and slapped them down with tepid water that had been sitting in a pitcher on my desk for at least five days.

While Cassandra poked at my scalp with a peroxide-soaked Q-tip, I told them of my misadventures of the past several hours, at least the conscious portion.

"Think it was Felix who took your friends?" A.W. asked.

"I don't know. Getting two unconscious bodies out of that building was at least a two-man job," I said. "I only got a glimpse of Felix that night at Phil Bruno's, but he seemed a little too slight to be able to handle any heavy lifting."

"So Felix and a helper," A.W. concluded. "Your fake cop?"

"Maybe." I felt something greasy on my scalp. "What're you doing up there?" I asked Cassandra.

"Neosporin. I put it on everything, just in case," she said. "The finishing touch."

She returned the various oils, unguents, and no-stick strips to the plastic box and placed the box on the desk. "You can put this away, Billy," she said. "I'm going home. I've had enough excitement for one night."

"Thanks for being my administering angel," I told her.

"Fuck you, Billy," she said. Then she turned to A.W. and, to his surprise, kissed him hard on the lips. "I'll see you tomorrow, Andrew."

We both watched her strut from the office.

A.W. was in something of a daze, as well he should have been.

I snapped my fingers an inch from his ear. "Back to reality, Andrew," I said.

"Right. Uh, reality. You should try to phone Ms. McCauley."

"I did, on the cab ride here. Wound up with her voice mail. Good recovery, by the way."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly ... Why do you suppose they took your friends?"

"I have no idea. It can't have been anything planned. We decided to go to Gallagher's place on the spur of the moment. Either somebody was watching the apartment or it was just our bad luck." But an egotistical, if not paranoid, reason did come to mind. Felix could have decided to take them just to put me on the spot.

A.W. got out his phone.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Calling Lee. I have to report this, Billy."

"She'll bring in the police, right?"

"She's not big on that. She'd rather we clean up our messes ourselves. But we now have a kidnap situation involving a celebrity, so I don't know."

"Calling in the cops won't accomplish anything except to get me arrested," I insisted. "The doorman at Rudy's building, a nice guy who helped me, will lose his job." I got to my feet. "And I don't think it'll help Gin and Ted."

"If I don't call her, I'll lose my job," he said.

"Your job, as I recall, is to care for my well-being," I said. "That won't be served if I wind up in the slam."

He looked at the phone in his hand.

"Lee might go along with keeping the police out," he said.

I was weary, but the aspirin had done some work, reducing the ache to a mild throb. Or maybe it was the thought of Lee Franchette. ... "Why don't I invite her here for a talk," I said, removing the white display handkerchief from my jacket pocket and handing it to him, "while you try and remove your new girlfriend's lipstick?"

Lee Franchette arrived looking as if she'd just awakened from a beauty nap. Judging by the combative stance and the flashing green eyes, she'd been hoping for a rest of longer duration.

"Well, here I am, Chef Blessing. What is so important?"

"Can I get you something to drink? I've got a forty-year-old cognac--"

"I accept the fact that you are charming and a good host, chef. My usually dependable agent is proof of that."

Behind her, A.W. slumped and dropped onto a chair.

"But it is nearing one a.m.," Lee continued. "I've had a very full day. I'm tired and a bit out of sorts. So let us cut to the chase. What is it you want?"

"First, about A.W.," I said. "It would be a mistake to blame him for not keeping me on a tighter leash--"

"I have no intention of blaming A.W.," she interrupted. "What happened is in no way his responsibility. Your life has been threatened by a world-class assassin. A.W. had no reason to suspect you might be foolish enough to leave these premises without him. Are you suicidal, chef?"

"No. On the contrary. I enjoy my life, such as it is. And I enjoy
freedom, which is why I asked you here. Why don't we sit down"--I pointed to my prize piece of furniture, a Goetz sofa of ebonized oak wood and ultra-comfortable cushions covered in Herman Miller Aztec material--"and I'll try to explain."

Lee removed her shiny black knee-length coat and draped it on a chair. That left her in a white silk blouse with a spread collar, tight faded jeans, and black running shoes with red stripes.

She descended gracefully onto the sofa. As I sat beside her, she stared at me. "What's that greasy mess behind your ear?" my goddess asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Um ... Neosporin," I said. "I ... was hit ... knocked out."

"I was hoping for a more detailed account," she said.

I nodded, untied my tongue, and told her about our visit to Rudy Gallagher's and its unfortunate consequences. When I'd finished, she shifted her glance from me to the carpet.

She sat there in silence for nearly a minute. I looked at A.W., who raised his shoulders in a quick shrug.

Lee Franchette's emerald eyes were suddenly focused on me again. It was like the hard drive in her brain had re-engaged and she was ready. "So rather than have A.W. merely report this information by phone, you wanted a face-to-face. Why?"

"Surely you've looked in a mirror," I said.

"Another time, I might be flattered," she said. "Right now, I expect a serious answer."

"I was concerned you might go to the police," I said.

"Why would I do that, when that's precisely what your attacker would want?"

Her answer surprised me. "Yeah," I said. "I just wasn't sure ..."

"Wasn't sure I'd understand the situation? I am not an idiot."

Even though I could detect no hint of an accent, her precise manner of speech made me think that English was not her first language. "There is only one possible reason your friends were removed from the crime scene. To incriminate you."

"What about ransom?" A.W. asked. "Ms. McCauley is the fifteen-million-dollar woman."

"That may be a secondary reason," Lee said. "But if it were the prime reason, they would have left Mr. Parkhurst and taken our client, since his redeemable value is considerably higher than Mr. Parkhurst's."

"And they wouldn't have bothered calling in the police," I said.

"Correct," she said. "Their intent was to add to your woes, chef. Which is what we are trying to avoid."

"What happens now?" I asked. "Gin and Ted are out there somewhere, probably with a guy whose business is murder. How do we find them?"

"We don't," Lee said. "This is not Deadwood, chef. It's New York City. And they could be in a suburb or out of the state by now. The only reason I would consider the police is because of their informants. Someone may have seen something. But my feeling is that it is too late for the police to be of any practical use. By now these miscreants have realized you have escaped arrest. I can think of no reason why they would kill your friends, unless they believe the deaths could be attributed to you somehow. It seems more likely they will settle for some other way of using them. Or, best scenario, they will release them."

"So all we do is stay put," I said.

"Exactly," she agreed. She cocked her head and seemed to be studying me. Not with distaste this time. A slight smile brightened her exotic, exquisite features. "You know, I do think I would like that cognac now."

I went down the night-lighted stairs, through the dark and silent restaurant, and into the bar, where, in the glow of the bubbling neon sea-horse clock, I grabbed a half-filled bottle and three snifters and carried them back to the office.

Lee was roaming about, looking at plaques and photos on the walls. I placed glasses on the desk, removed the bottle top, and was starting to pour when A.W. appeared with his overnight bag.

"Going somewhere?" I asked.

He looked toward Lee.

"No sense both of us doubling the hours," she said. She was studying an autographed photo of the first great television chef, Julia Child, taken just after she had been presented the French Legion of Honor award. I'd picked it up at an auction.

"So ... do I come back tomorrow evening?" A.W. asked Lee.

"I can't think why not," she said, turning to face him. She smiled. "Sleep well."

"You, too," he said, then winced, realizing that the reply may not have been entirely appropriate.

"That will be up to our villain," she said. "I expect we may be hearing from him shortly."

"Then maybe I should ..."

"Go," she ordered.

A.W. looked at me, bemused, and gave me a two-finger salute.

"See you tomorrow," I said, equally bemused, and watched him make his exit.

I finished pouring the cognac.

"Is that for me?" Lee asked, indicating one of the snifters.

"Of course," I said. "But they say we should let it breathe a half-minute for each of its years."

"How boring," she said, walking toward me to claim the glass. I lifted mine, trying to think of a toast that would be provocative but not totally obvious.

But she was walking away, toward the hall leading to my living quarters. "I assume, chef, that your bedroom is in this direction."

"Let me show you," I said, moving toward her. "And all things considered, 'chef' seems a little formal, don't you think? Call me Billy."

"Don't make too much of tonight, chef," she said. In her thick rubber soles she was almost my height. I put my arm around her waist and led her down the hall, wondering exactly
what
to make of it.

She stopped suddenly, turned, and pressed against me. "Oh, hell," she said, and we kissed. A good long kiss.

I guessed our cognacs would be getting more time to breathe than they really needed.

It was barely dawn when I felt someone shaking the bed.

"Huh. What ... Lee ...?"

I blinked awake and saw Bettina Noor standing bedside, looking at me with open-eyed surprise. "Lee ... left hours ago," she said.

"Oh. Must've been dreaming," I croaked. Judging by her expression, she was stunned by the probability that her supervisor and I had engaged in a relationship more intimate than professional.

She was studying the bed. With a groan, I sat up. At the sight of my naked chest, she looked away. "We have to go," she said. She seemed disillusioned.

"Go where?" I asked. "What time is it?"

"Seven-forty-two." She was heading for the door. "We have to drive to the WBC building. Hurry."

"Why?" I asked, throwing back the covers and easing onto the carpet. My headache had returned, in high-def. "It's Sunday, the day of rest. I don't work today."

"This is not about work," Bettina said, her back to me. "Ms. Franchette just notified me that ransom instructions regarding your friends have been received. Your presence is requested, immediately, in the network conference room."

Within fourteen minutes, I was sliding onto the passenger seat of her gray Camry hybrid, a considerably more comfortable vehicle than I'd imagined. And certainly more spick-and-span than Joe's rolling dustball.

Not that I was in any condition to be thinking about cleanliness. I'd performed only the most basic hygienic necessities. I felt unclean, uncomfortable, emotionally perplexed, coffee-starved, and ill-prepared for whatever awaited us at the Glass Tower.