I'm Glad I Did (24 page)

“Bernie,” Janny said, cutting him off, “where were you the night Dulcie died? If you have an alibi, this is all moot.”

“I don't have an alibi,” Bernie admitted. “I was working. Even though it was a Saturday, I had things to catch up on.”

“When you left, did you take the elevator?” I asked. “Maybe Nick saw you.”

“No, I took the stairs because there was only one elevator
working that late. I think it was Antonio's. Whatever. I was in a hurry to get home.”

Janny set her coffee cup down. “Did you speak to anyone on the phone between six and seven?” she asked.

“I know I'm not making this easy for you, Janice, but the answer is no.” Bernie hadn't touched his own coffee or danish. “The bottom line is I could have done it, but I didn't. You're just going to have to believe me.”

“What I believe is irrelevant,” Janny shot back. “It's what I can prove. The problem lies with your reputation. You've been involved with gangsters, with payola, with a thousand rotten music business schemes—all of which, I might add, have not gone unnoticed by the police. This is
Les Miz
in the Brill Building. McGrath is your Inspector Javert. You're his Jean Valjean. He wants you in prison for something. He's been keeping an eye on you. And he's frustrated that he hasn't been able to nail you yet. But when and if he does, he knows that the impression you will give to a jury is not going to be a good one.”

Bernie glanced at me. For a second, I almost thought I caught a glimpse of that old twinkle, that bravado I'd come to both loathe and love. “You don't like me very much, do you, sis?” he asked, his tone dry. “I mean, I just want to determine if that's ‘relevant' or not.”

“I can never forgive the pain you caused our parents by dropping out of their lives,” she stated.

“Spoken like a true lawyer—neither a yes nor a no.” Bernie shook his head. “I'm not the most solid citizen, there's no denying it,” he continued, “but I want you to know something, Janice. I had a pretty good reason for not
coming around. Our parents called my first wife, whom I adored, ‘the spic' behind her back. Margarita knew how they felt about her. That she was unworthy of being included in our family. That's not why we split, but it sure didn't help our marriage. And Janice, you took their side. You shut me out completely. Why do you think I showed up at Jeff's bar mitzvah? I wanted you to see how much our family meant to me. I wanted back in, but you never opened the door.”

I turned to my mother. From the shock on her face, I could see that this side of her parents was just as much of a revelation to her as it was to me.

“I hear what you're saying, Bernie,” Janny said. “I do.” Her voice was tight. She smoothed her skirt. “Putting our past aside, I'm only going to ask you this one time. So think carefully before you answer me. Did you kill Dulcie Brown?”

“No,” Bernie replied without hesitation. “I did not. Now I'm only going to ask you this one time, and I want the truth, too. Do you believe me?”

I watched them stare at each other, trying not to let their years of history get in the way of this moment. Janny opened her mouth, then closed it. She was pleading the fifth. A true lawyer, indeed.

“Okay, Jan,” Bernie muttered, leaning back. “I get it. Can you represent me anyway?”

“Of course I can.” Janny said, with a sad smile. “I do it all the time.”

LATER THAT MORNING AT
Good Music, I copied and filed as usual. Rona left me alone, knowing I was coping with unspecified
family drama. Maybe that would shield me from Bobby, too. On every break, I played Dulcie's demo of “I'm Glad I Did” over and over. Maybe if I just listened closely enough, I might find some answers. A message of some kind in the turn of a phrase, the lyricism of a vocal riff or just the sound of her voice. I knew it didn't make sense, but she was right there in the room with me.

“Tell me,” I whispered. “Tell me what happened.”

My mother thought Bernie was guilty. I was still trying to wrap my head around that, but then as I listened to the demo, I had a thought. It had nothing to do with Dulcie's death, but her voice led me to it.
I know who might be able to record Dulcie's demo. I know a singer who isn't on the usual Good Music list, a singer Bobby Goodman can discover …

First I called Luke to run the idea by him. Then I called Rosetta, who was her usual warm and fuzzy self. “What do
you
want, girl?” she grunted. I asked her to pick up the demo at the Good Music office, just to give it a listen, to see how her mother had brought life to a song. She was guarded until I told her that there would be no hugging involved. Then I decided to take a lunch break at The Turf bar.

I'd been chomping on my sandwich for about five minutes when Nick slid onto the seat next to me. I don't think I'd ever been as happy to see him. I needed company, an ear. I felt as if my thoughts were driving holes in my brain. I needed to hear someone else's voice.

“Please talk to me,” I said. “I'm obsessing about Dulcie again. I'm driving myself crazy.”

“I've been thinking about her, too,” Nick confessed.
“She'd been through so much, and she was still such a sweet person. She was so alive … it's hard to believe that she's gone. It breaks my heart.”

He ordered roast beef on a bun and a Coke.

“It breaks my heart, too,” I answered. “What's worse is that I really believed she had a good chance for a comeback.”

“I know,” Nick confirmed. “She sounded fantastic on that song of yours she recorded.”

“Yeah, she did,” I said. “I mean, that's what gave me the idea …” All at once, I felt a stab in my gut. I wasn't sure why, but I knew I had to get off the subject of Dulcie. “I don't think I can talk about it anymore,” I told Nick. “You know everything that's going on in the building. Fill me in on some juicy gossip.”

He was happy to oblige. In the next five minutes, I found out who was delivering payola money to which disc jockey, who was cheating on their wives—and the only gossip that truly interested me—who was getting their songs recorded and by whom. But all the time he was talking, I felt a silent alarm going off in my brain. Something was wrong.

Right after lunch, I sneaked down from Good Music to room 717. Luke had almost finished packing. Gone were the stacks of papers and piles of folders; almost everything was in boxes now. He was starting to take the pictures off the walls … and then he'd be done.

“Luke, did you ever play Dulcie's demo for Nick?” I asked, not bothering to sit.

“No.” He shook his head. “I never played it for anyone. Why do you ask?”

That's when it hit me. In that instant I knew what I did and didn't want to know. If Luke hadn't played it for Nick, and I hadn't played it for Nick, there was only one other place he could have heard it: Dulcie's apartment. But he had told me that he'd never been there.

“Why would he do that?” I asked Luke, once I'd spelled everything out for him. “Why would he lie?”

“Maybe he just misspoke,” Luke countered. His green eyes got that distant look they always did when he was thinking deeply about something, weighing all the various outcomes. “Maybe he didn't want you to know he'd been there for his own reasons. There are so many maybes.”

“Yeah, there are.” I met his gaze. “But maybe the only one that matters is he lied.”

“JJ,” Luke said in a soft voice, “are you sure you're not jumping on this because you don't want Bernie to be guilty?”

“I'm sure,” I answered. “Luke … I can't explain it. I have this feeling inside. Like I'm connected to Dulcie, and she's telling me what to do. I'm going to McGrath, and I'm going to tell him what I know and what I think.”

Luke stepped toward me, taking my hands. “I'm sure the New York City police department will be eager to discuss the vibrations you feel from beyond the grave,” he commented dryly, raising his eyebrows.

I had to smile even though I didn't want to. At least he smiled back. That smile was worth any grief. “You're probably right, Sherlock, but I'm going to tell them anyway.”

He let go of my hands and kissed me on the lips. “I
know you will, Watson. Just call me when you do. I'll be wrapping up here. I can't wait to hear how they respond to your theory. My advice: just go easy on the Dulcie communication part.”

After work I took the stairs down from Good Music instead of the elevator, then hopped on the subway to police headquarters—all the way downtown. By the time I arrived forty minutes later, I was hot and tired. And surprised at how crummy the place was, on par with Luke's apartment. The main floor was grimy and chaotic: sweaty cops bringing in sweatier criminals and booking them. People shuffled in, milling around, looking for jailed relatives. And there were some real nutcases: some yelling about their innocence, some screaming they didn't belong there, others screaming for no reason at all. I couldn't conceive of the kind of person who'd actually
want
to work here.

Luckily, the wait was short. I was ushered into Frank McGrath's office after only a few minutes. I didn't even let him get through the usual pleasantries before I launched into the story of my lunch with Nick, and the slip he'd made in regard to Dulcie and visiting her apartment.

“Only three people had the demo,” I finished. “Luke,
me, and Dulcie, and neither Luke nor I played it for him. The only place he could have heard it was Dulcie's apartment on the afternoon or night of her death. You need to at least question him.”

He leaned back in his chair and motioned toward one across from the desk. “Justice, you sure you don't want to sit?”

“No, thank you.”

“Listen, sweetheart,” McGrath said with poorly disguised sarcasm, “I'm sure your mom has told you we're understaffed and need help. So I really appreciate your trying to assist us in this investigation. But right now we have a suspect who is very viable. We're very busy and focused on checking into his involvement in this case.”

“You're talking about my Uncle Bernie, aren't you?”

“Yes, at this moment, Bernie Rubin is our prime suspect. But we will definitely look into this Nick person, the elevator operator.” He sat up and straightened a pile of papers, then reached for a notebook.

I knew I was being “yessed.” I could tell by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes.
Shut the little girl up, and get her out of here so she won't bother us anymore
.

“Please, Detective McGrath,” I begged. “Please take this as seriously as if a person over twenty-one was telling you this. My uncle may not be guilty.”

McGrath stifled a grin. But he clicked open a pen and leaned over his notebook. “Okay, JJ. I'll run a make on your suspect. Now, what's Nick's last name?”

I felt my heart stop. I didn't know Nick's last name. He was just Nick. “Um, I … I, I'll find that out for you and call
you,” I stammered.

“You do that,” McGrath said, letting the grin escape. His lips curved into a gentle smile. “And then you get back to me.”

I think I managed to escape his office without tripping over my big feet because they were planted firmly in my mouth. What kind of Watson was I? And what kind of advocate for Bernie? My face felt hot, and I knew I was probably bright red. I didn't know what to do. I just knew I had to tell Janny what I'd learned and what I'd done before I screwed up anymore.

I found a pay phone and called her office. She was still in court. I left word with her secretary that I had something important to discuss with Janny, along with Luke's office number. Then, I called Luke and told him exactly how I'd made a total fool of myself. At least I hadn't mentioned trying to communicate with Dulcie through her vocal performance.

“Do you know Nick's last name?” I asked.

“What kind of question is that, Watson?”

“Well, Sherlock, it seems they need that to run a make on him, and I don't know it.”

“Well, er … why don't you come over to the office?”

I had to laugh. “You don't either. Are we lame or what, Sherlock? Can you guess?”

“I never guess,” Luke stated with a fairly spot-on Holmes-like British accent. “It is a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty.”

“I get it, wise guy. You know your Sherlock quotes, but you don't know Nick's last name. I'm on my way.”

• • •

ANOTHER FORTY MINUTES OF
being jammed in a stuffy subway car, and I was back at the Brill Building, none the wiser or happier. It was almost eight o'clock. I was exhausted. The last bit of sunlight was fading from the city streets. I marched through the lobby, planning to take the stairs to Luke's office—but all at once, Nick's elevator door opened.