VC03 - Mortal Grace (35 page)

“Then it got tangled. The Vanderbrook family subpoenaed me to depose in the preliminary phase of the civil suit.”

The silence seemed to reverberate.

“Who’d they sue?” Cardozo said.

“The family sued the pants off the Episcopal diocese.”

“Why’d they do that?”

“I seem to recollect the charge was gross malfeasance of pastoral duty.” Dan stared up at a whispering air vent in the ceiling. “A priest at St. Andrew’s Church had been counseling Wright Vanderbrook. Vanderbrook senior claimed there was a homosexual relationship between them, and when the priest broke the relationship off, the son killed himself.”

“So Vanderbrook senior claimed his son’s suicide was the priest’s fault?”

Dan nodded.

“What was your take on it? Any truth to the charge?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you. They didn’t call me back to testify, and I didn’t follow the trial.”

“How was the suit resolved?”

“Dunno. After I deposed, after all the subpoenas and bullshit, I never heard another word about it.”

Cardozo kept rolling it over in his mind.

“Want me to get the file out?” Dan offered.

One look at the stacks of files and slides and glossies on Dan’s desk told Cardozo that the poor guy was up to his gazoo in deadlines. “I hate to put you to more trouble.”

“Believe me, when it comes to trouble, you’re bush league.” Dan went to his files and searched through the Vs. He handed Cardozo a folder. “That’s a relic. They tell me everything’s going to computer.”

“Lucky you.”

“I’m going to have to take basic computer literacy. Can you believe it—a school kid again.”

Cardozo sat in the armchair. His eyes moved quickly down columns of type. “Death resulted from a lethal injection of cocaine?”

Dan nodded. “Presumably self-administered.”

“How presumably is that?”

“As in obviously. No way it was murder.”

“Injecting cocaine isn’t all that common, is it?”

“Injecting yourself to death with it isn’t. But then, I only see the dead ones.”

“Those four kids I asked you to look at—they had cocaine residue on injection marks.”

“But they had a lot else, too—bruises, cuts, leather scrapings, alcohol in the bloodstream, azidofluoramine in the liver. If you’re trying to fit Vanderbrook into the series, don’t.”

Cardozo closed the folder. “Then in your opinion the other four are a series?”

“With M.O. that close—I’d say there’s very little question that all four homicides were committed by one killer.”

For as long as Cardozo had known him, Dan had tended to conservatism in his guesstimates. Very-little-question was his way of saying absolutely 105 percent certain.

“The only problem I’m having is that matzo residue in the mouths.” Dan smiled. “The computer seems to have eaten it. But I’ll dig up the paperwork. Paper matzo would have a hard time disappearing.”

David Lowndes scooped a brushful of glue out of the pail and slathered it across the wall. Bonnie peeled a poster off the roll and pressed it against the wet brick.

The light from the doorway of 4 Gracie Square caught the lettering: $10,000
REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO IDENTIFICATION OF ASSAILANT WHO MUGGED FATHER JOE MONTGOMERY IN CARL SCHURZ PARK
4
P.M. MAY
10. NO PROSECUTION.

“What’s the penalty for posting bills?” Bonnie said.

David Lowndes gave her a chummy pat on the shoulder. “Not to worry. This is St. Andrew’s work, and St. Andrew’s can afford it, my sweet.”

Sometimes David’s easygoing, nothing-can-faze-a-lawyer manner put her off, but tonight Bonnie found a certain security in it.

They were getting back into his Porsche when she noticed the figure skulking in a phone booth on the corner of East End Avenue.

“That’s him.” Her eye recognized the silhouetted baseball cap and ponytail before her mind did. “The boy who robbed me in the cab.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost. What’s he up to? Pretend to drive away.”

David gunned the motor, ripped around the corner, braked, and backed up.

The boy was taking down the poster.

David floored the accelerator. The boy dodged through the headlight beams. David U-turned, wheels screaming up onto the sidewalk, and gave chase.

At East End their quarry ducked into the park.

David ran the red light. Behind them, a police siren howled.

David slammed on the brakes. “Sorry, Bonnie, but I’m not going to lose my license for this piece of white shit.”

FORTY-FIVE

A
BUTLER ADMITTED CARDOZO
to Mr. and Mrs. Baxter Vanderbrook’s triplex apartment on East Seventy-first Street. “Would you wait here, please.” It was not a question.

From the hallway, Cardozo could see two card tables set up in the walnut-paneled living room. Judging by the level of laughter and chitchat, he suspected there were a few more tables he couldn’t see. Beneath gilt-framed Impressionists, men and women in evening clothes were playing bridge.

A tall, dour white-haired gentleman in a tuxedo approached. “I’m Baxter Vanderbrook. Don’t you people believe in phoning ahead?” He took Cardozo into a study lined with leather-bound editions.

Cardozo apologized for the intrusion. “I wouldn’t be bothering you, but I went to the courthouse to look up your lawsuit, and there’s nothing on file.”

“My lawsuit? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and your wife brought suit against St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church.”

Vanderbrook’s face was suddenly like a board with nails stabbing through. “I’m sorry, that’s a matter I absolutely will not discuss.”

“Baxter, what’s going on?” A very erect, diet-slender woman in gray stood in the doorway.

“I’m speaking with a man from the police.”

“I’m Irene Vanderbrook.” Her eyes locked with Cardozo’s—lonely green eyes the color of ivy in winter. She took four steps into the room. “Is it something to do with Wright?”

“The discussion has been concluded,” Vanderbrook said. “You can get back to your hand.”

“I’m dummy.”

“Then bid my hand. Three hearts.”

Mrs. Vanderbrook’s fingers went to her gold necklace. “Three hearts?”

“Three, goddammit,
three
.”

“All right.” She turned and was gone.

“My wife is not well,” Vanderbrook said. “She’s had one breakdown because of this business, and if you people cause her to have another, I warn you: I’ll sue.” He drew in a long breath. Diamond studs twinkled on his boiled shirt. “The butler will show you out.”

Cardozo did not bother waiting for the butler. A dark-haired young woman in emeralds and violet silk stopped him in the front hallway.

“I take it you’re from the police and Daddy was not hospitable?” Her voice had a sort of desperate laughing music. She held out a hand armored in gemstones. “I’m Pierrette Vanderbrook.”

“Vince Cardozo. You’re Wright’s sister?”

“I had that pleasure.”

“Your brother’s name has surfaced in an investigation.”

“Daddy hates discussing Wright’s death.” A white line ran along her left jawbone, not an ugly line, but just noticeably lighter than the pale olive of her face. “Maybe I could help you.”

Cardozo took an envelope from his pocket. “Do you recognize any of the people in those photos? Did you ever see any of them with your brother?”

Pierrette Vanderbrook opened the envelope. She studied the faces of Gilmartin and Wills. Earrings glistened on either side of her wondering stare. She shuffled Vegas and Lomax and Cespedes. Cardozo could make out other, fainter lines on her forehead and nose. He felt he was looking at a well-restored photograph of an extremely handsome young woman.

“I’m afraid I’ve never seen any of these people. They don’t look like Wright’s sort at all.”

The perpetual smile did not go with what she was saying. It occurred to Cardozo that it might be the result of plastic surgery.

“Never drive drunk.” She handed back the envelope. “I did, and I went through a windshield. I saw you noticing. The surgeons patched me up well, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re a very attractive young woman.”

She smiled wryly. “Now, let’s not exaggerate, but thank you.”

“What can you tell me about your parents’ lawsuit?”

“Which one?”

“Against the Episcopal Church.”

“It didn’t get anywhere.”

After a late dinner, Cardozo and Terri were sitting in the living room. A Dvorak symphony was playing so softly on the CD player that it was almost a halo on the silence.

Terri glanced over. “What are you reading?”

He had his feet up on the footstool and a stack of files on the floor. “An old case. Wanda Gilmartin.”

One eyebrow came down in a frown. “You never mentioned a Wanda Gilmartin.”

“We used to call her Ms. Basket Case till we learned her right name.”

“You closed that case.”

“The lid popped up again.”

The phone rang. Terri answered. She made a face and whispered, “Aunt Jill.”

Cardozo took the receiver. “Hello, Jill.”

“I got worried when I didn’t hear from you.” The voice was slurred yet manic. He could tell she’d been drinking.

“I’m sorry, were you supposed to hear from me?”

“You know what day it is today. It’s Sally’s birthday.”

His body went rigid as if she had thrown a punch. “My God, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“Nobody wants to remember but me. Everyone else treats her like a dead person.”

“Sally’s not dead.”

“Then why haven’t you found her? You’re a cop.”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“Then everything’s not enough.” Jill began crying. “I saw her today.”

Cardozo felt wearier than he had since Sally’s last birthday. It seemed that every birthday there was a new Sally sighting. “Where was this?”

“On television. A commercial. I swear it was her. I tried to get a tape in the VCR to record it, but by the time I got it to work they were back to
Donahue
.”

“What was this commercial?”

“It was…I don’t remember, it was a product.”

“Sally was modeling a product.”

“You know how she always wanted to be a model.”

“What’s happening to you, Jill?” He felt he was talking a plane down in a storm. “How do you get this way? You’ve got to stop saying
yes
to every idea that crosses your mind on a fourth vodka.”

“Three. I’ve only had three.”

“You’re burning yourself out. What’s more, you’re burning
me
out.”

“All right. I can tell I’m a nuisance. You don’t want to listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Your kind of listening just isn’t enough, Vince. It’s just not enough. It’s a lucky thing your wife’s dead, because if she were alive, she’d divorce you.”

The receiver clattered sloppily to the cradle and a dial tone cut in.

She didn’t mean that
, Cardozo told himself.
She’s just drunk and upset.

He went back to his files. He kept hearing his sister’s voice and it ripped at him like a hacksaw. He closed Gilmartin and opened Vanderbrook. He couldn’t concentrate.

“Hey, Terri, when you were trying out for that musical, did you ever run into a young guy called Wright Vanderbrook?”

“Sure. I met him at the audition.”

He sensed she knew something, and she was wearing her knowledge just a bit slyly.

“And?”

She shrugged. “And I dated him for a while.”

Cardozo was shocked. It shocked him how shocked he was. “You
dated
him?”

“I do have dates, Dad.”

Cardozo’s brain was sending him a warning signal:
pull out of this conversation now.
But he couldn’t help himself. “But Wright Vanderbrook was older.”

“Seven years older. That was the attractive thing about him.”

“I can’t believe you actually dated this guy.”

“We spent our time playing four-hand piano duets.” She smiled, remembering. “We were going pretty strong through Mozart.”

Easy now
, he told himself.
She’s my daughter
,
but she’s seventeen years old. I don’t own her….

But there was something trapped inside him, some feeling that she was still a little girl, that she was still
his
little girl, and it pushed him beyond the point where he should have quit. “What do you mean, going pretty strong?”

“We played a lot of Mozart four-hand sonatas. In fact, we played all of them. Which is going
very
strong.”

Cardozo liked to think he knew what to get worked up about and what not to and yet here he was letting doubt edge in, dark and razor-thin. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She flicked him a look of amused impatience. “I’m saying it’s a lot of music, even for a Mozart freak. Which I’m not, but he was. And then the Schubert sonatas broke us up.”

“What was there to break up? What were you to each other?”

“Four hands on a keyboard.”

“What does that mean?”

She got up and went into her bedroom.

Cardozo followed her. “Hey…I’m talking to you.”

She had pulled a cardboard carton out of the closet and was sitting on the rug, sifting through letters and magazines and sheet music. She handed him a dog-eared folio album. “Here’s what broke us up.”

He looked at the cover:
Franz Schubert, Compositions for Piano Four Hands, edited by I. J. Paderewski.
A printed sticker had been carefully centered at the bottom:
Property of W. Vanderbrook.

“Page fifty-nine,” she said.

He had a feeling she was trying to be patient with him, and he felt like an old idiot. He turned to page fifty-nine. Dozens of alternate fingerings had been penciled in over the notes.

“We always had trouble keeping together in that passage. He said it was my fault; I said it was his fault. He said I had no sense of the Schubert style; I said he was a twit with no sense, period. He told me to get lost; I stormed out. He was too stubborn to phone and apologize; I was too stubborn to phone and apologize. So we never spoke to one another again, and a few months later he killed himself.”