Authors: Hazel Dawkins,Dennis Berry
“Who cares?” Brian grumbled. “Guy broke the law, it’s not legal to fly solo over Manhattan. Someone shot him and he crashed. End of story.”
Yoko groaned inwardly at Brian’s comment. It was okay for someone to shoot the guy because he was flying a balloon illegally?
“Why would someone be shooting arrows in the air?” Zoran said, apparently oblivious to Brian’s remark.
“Man, we gotta get to the hospital. It’s urgent,” one of the EMTs said.
Zoran nodded. Now that the EMTs knew they were dealing with a wound in the back and possible internal injuries, they skillfully positioned the balloonist face down on the stretcher and speedily loaded him into the ambulance, which set off, siren wailing.
Yoko looked at her watch: 7:30 already. If she hurried, she could at least sort through the piles of paper on her desk before Dan arrived. She’d find out more about the accident from him.
“Officers, any more questions for me? All right if I go?”
Brian Watson shrugged. Zoran gave no indication he’d even heard her. Yoko headed for the side door to the college, the main one was blocked. No one would be able to use the front entrance until the mass of material from the balloon was removed. That would be a headache and a half.
Jay, the guard on duty greeted Yoko cheerily, used to her frequent arrival on weekends. “G’morning, Yoko, what’s happening outside? Can’t see a thing with all that stuff covering the glass.”
“A nasty accident, Jay. Those are the remnants from a hot-air balloon that you’re looking at. Only one person was in it and he’s seriously injured.”
“Oh man, that’s too bad. Think he blew over from New Jersey?”
“Could be,” Yoko said, smiling as she signed in. Jay was convinced all things strange originated in New Jersey. She climbed the stairs to her office, calling back, “I won’t be here long. Dan’s coming by when he gets off. Should be soon.”
She settled down at her desk with a sense of relief. Enough disaster for one day. The ferry ride and beach would be welcome diversions. She’d finished sorting papers into “Must Do,” and “Can Wait” piles when her phone rang. It was Dan.
“Morning, strange one so far,” Yoko said.
“Sorry to hear that because I don’t have good news,” Dan replied. “I’ve been put on a murder case, high-profile one. Look’s like my day off’s cancelled.”
“He died? But how do you know it’s murder already, not an accident?”
“Say again? You know about the case I’m on?”
“The balloon that crashed over the college. I…”
“Gotta go,” Dan interrupted, “but my murder’s not at the college. But hey, I get brownie points, yes? I called this time.”
Rats, Yoko thought, forget brownie points. I’m sick of this. It’s too much, wasting a gorgeous day like this. I bet the idiot volunteered. Guess I’ll be eating alone tonight. Dan claims he has the soul of a romantic but he’s an absentee romantic. Not good enough.
Yoko’s phone rang again. It was Zoran Zeissing.
“Doctor, are you free to join me on a murder investigation?”
4
From the south end of Union Square Park, the gentle breeze carried the hot-air balloon slowly northeastwards. Union Square was achingly familiar territory for Hans. It was where Frankie Manning had heard him fiddling the wild, racing melodies of his Romani heritage and invited him to the Cat Club, just a block over, on East 13
th
Street. There, Hans had played his fiddle and watched as Frankie dazzled a group of students with his jazz dancing, the exuberant, magical moves the athletic maestro called three-minute romances. Brigitta had been the one student in the small group that Hans watched all those years ago, as the dapper Frankie, smiling in pure joy, tapping so fast the lightning moves of his feet were a blur, had glided and twirled and leaped breath-takingly high to the strains of Hans’ music.
Brigitta had been equally fascinated by the music and by Hans. She was captivated by his obvious ardor for his heritage. No three-minute romance for Hans and Brigitta. Decades of loving and dancing and dreaming of future success had followed. Until cancer took Brigitta.
Hans choked down the bittersweet memories. Time to concentrate on the here and now, on what his family expected of him.
The National Arts Club was a scant two blocks ahead, off at ten o’clock. So far, so good. This was the trickiest part of the flight. He pulled the lanyard and released a little air, drifting down just a bit. He’d have to be careful. Having to gain altitude by triggering the balloon’s burner would be noisy and could alarm his target; better to come in a bit high and let the balloon drop slowly and silently to the roof top. The building he was heading for was only three stories tall, and he needed to be close enough to the roof to be able to use a grappling hook if he had to. With continued good fortune, whose face had done nothing but smile on him this morning, he’d settle squarely on the rooftop.
As he approached the impressive brownstone occupying the corner of Irving Place at Gramercy Park South, he released more air from the bag, jubilant with his God. The balloon settled another 30 feet, the rooftop now 200 feet straight ahead and only 20 feet below the basket. One more release of air and the basket would drop silently to the roof, opposite his target.
Hans focused on the incarnate evil at the end of the roof-top archery run—
the man
at the end of the archery range
,
who appeared to be
mesmerized
by the arrows he had placed perfectly in the circular bulls-eye target, completely oblivious to the hot-air balloon drifting closer.
Hans bled off some more air, then removed the Luger from its holster as the balloon continued to
descend
to the roof, oh so gently. He held the Luger in his right hand, keeping his eyes on the man in the archery range and carefully picked up the grappling hook by feel. Hans knew he would have to approach the man quietly, using the open door at the other end of the wire mesh-protected range. Bullets from the Luger probably would penetrate the mesh surrounding the archery run, but he needed to make sure.
A ray of sunlight
from
that open doorway at
the
opposite end of the archery run
flashed across Hans’ eyes, and his attention shifted to the astonishing sight of a second archer standing there, h
er bow raised, a hunting arrow notched and ready to fly
, sunlight glistening from its razored tip.
Her arrow flew, finding and knifing into its
target
—Hans’ quarry. The man arched his back, then slowly fell forward, the arrow protruding from his back.
“No!” Hans cried. “He’s mine!” Hans raised his Luger. “Mine!”
The startled archer stared up at Hans, her mouth agape at the sight of a man in the basket of a balloon, a man waving a pistol. Where the hell did he come from?
She notched another arrow.
5
“The balloonist died and already you’re convinced it was murder?” Yoko said, thinking her words were strangely déjà vu.
“I am not talking about the balloonist. We are needed on a different case.”
“Really? Fine. If you’re still outside, I can be there in a minute,” Yoko said.
Now that Dan had cancelled, she might as well join Zoran for some sort of excitement. She sure wasn’t going to spend a day at the beach by herself.
The OCD detective was waiting by the side entrance when she reached the lobby.
“Brian will drive us there, although we could as easily walk to Gramercy Park. We will be briefed when we arrive.”
“When we arrive where? The National Arts Club?” Yoko asked, immediately thinking that there had been yet another brouhaha at the club at Gramercy Park. Like the troubling stories about pigeons poisoned inside the gated park, one of several articles that had appeared in the
Post
. Always something going on, frequently rumors from the gossip mill. When Zoran shook his head, she was relieved, until he spoke.
“When we arrive at the Fellini home.” Zoran said.
“A murder at the Fellini home?”
“That is correct, the husband, Marco Fellini, has been shot with an arrow, just like the balloonist.” Zoran shuddered, as if worried young braves had returned to the warpath while he was straightening the knives in his cutlery drawer. Yet again.
He shook himself back to the moment. “I believe you know the Fellinis, Yoko.”
“Yes,” Yoko said, struggling to adjust to the shocking news. “Marco Fellini funded a vision therapy program for students at P.S. 41.”
“Are you saying he knew about your work in behavioral optometry?” Zoran sounded almost insulted that someone else had an insider’s knowledge about the little-known optometric specialty that was Yoko’s passion.
“Yes. His wife had raging migraines and was referred to my boss, Dr. Forrest.”
“She was helped and the husband also sought therapy?” Zoran said, in one of his mind-boggling connect-the-dots leaps of understanding.
“Even better. When Marco Fellini went to Dr. Forrest and was helped for the occasional double vision that had bothered him for years, he decided to send his two assistants.”
“Very thoughtful,” Zoran said.
“Marco Fellini had an ulterior motive––his interest in archery. It’s part of his aim to make his business unique. The glitterati love someone who’s different. What other art dealer has an archery run on his rooftop and assistants who are archers? But even though the two women had regular archery lessons, they weren’t improving. He asked if vision therapy would help and Dr. Forrest said that if either of the young women had a vision imbalance, it could be the reason their archery wasn’t improving. It turned out that one had serious headaches, not migraines but quite frequent, troubling episodes, and the other had trouble focusing. Vision therapy helped them both and their archery improved. Marco Fellini was so impressed, he decided to fund a program for optometrists to test the kids at P.S. 41. If any of the youngsters had learning or behavior problems triggered by vision imbalances, they could go to the SUNY clinic for help. He covered all the costs and wanted regular reports, so my boss sent me to the Fellini house a few times, though usually I met with his wife, Sophia.”
Brian, who’d been listening carefully, said, “On a first-name basis, eh? Your idea or hers?”
“Hers,” Yoko answered.
“Damn democratic for a plutocrat,” Brian said. “Bet the Fellinis never had to think about having enough money for retirement.”
“Marco Fellini was a wealthy and generous man,” Zoran said, blandly ignoring Brian’s comment about retirement.
“Yup, you got that right, Zoran,” Brian said. “Hey, Yoko, you heard about the archery program Fellini organized?”
“Another program?” Yoko said. “I know he was an art dealer, right, and a director at Sotheby’s? His picture was often in the papers, record-breaking sales at auctions, charity fund-raisers, that sort of thing.”
“Right,” Brian said. “But he kinda adopted the police as one of his charities. He paid for archery classes for everyone at all the precincts in Manhattan. He said archery was good for mental and physical focus and relaxing because bows and arrows are so different from guns. Damned if he wasn’t right, it does take your mind off the daily grind.”
The Fellinis’ elegant corner brownstone on Gramercy Park South came into view. Journalists and paparazzi were milling around outside the building. The Fellini murder was serious news, big enough to knock the crash of a hot-air balloonist off the interest list. A police van was trying to back out through the mass of men and women and Brian waited until its driver finally swung clear of the crowd then carefully angled the car into the space the van had left, grumbling all the while at the media hounds who pressed dangerously close. Camera flashes went off like firecrackers, dazzling their eyes.
“Why the hell are they taking
our
pictures?” Brian said. “Idiots. Sorry you two have to wade through them. Me, I’m due back at the one-three,” and he drove off as soon as Yoko and Zoran left the car. Probably needed to get back to his full-time job planning his retirement, Yoko thought.
Vinnie Baldoni, the uniform at the front door of the Fellinis’ brownstone, grinned when he saw Yoko.
“Dan’ll be surprised,” Vinnie said. “He doesn’t know Monk asked the chief to have you join the team. They’re in the parlor with the Dragon Lady.”
So this was where Dan’s case––and Dan––were.
Zoran said, “Officer Baldoni, my name is Zeissing. Detective Zoran Zeissing. I am neither a monk nor a character in a television show. I do not understand why you have so much trouble remembering my name.”
Yoko shook her head. Vinnie, the man responsible for all the nicknames at the station, including “Monk” for Zoran, had wasted no time finding a suitable one for Sophia Fellini. “Dragon Lady” was remarkably accurate. A wealthy and drop-dead gorgeous dragon lady. Yoko had yet to discover what nickname Vinnie had given her, Dan flat-out refused to tell her. One day he would let it slip, or someone would. Hell could freeze before she’d ask, she’d find it out one way or another, no holds barred.
In the hallway, another uniformed officer, a stranger to Yoko, stood outside the small living room that was tucked away from the rest of the ground floor, which was used for business entertaining. He recognized Zoran, stared hard at Yoko then nodded for them to go in.
Sophia Fellini was seated on an opulent brocade sofa. Mark Sanders, Chief of Detectives, sat in a matching chair opposite the sofa, carefully cleaning his glasses on an immaculate handkerchief. Dan Riley sat in a matching chair to the chief’s left, also facing Sophia Fellini. The elegant socialite, impressively groomed as always, wore a striking green silk outfit, simple but expensive. Her countenance was grim but she managed a miniscule nod at Yoko.