NYPD Puzzle (3 page)

5

Becky Baldwin piloted
Cora’s red Toyota down the Saw Mill River Parkway toward New York.

“Got your gun?” Becky said.

Cora reached into her floppy drawstring purse and whipped out a revolver.

“Hey, don’t point that thing at me! I didn’t ask to see it, I just asked if you had it.”

“Relax,” Cora said. She snapped the cylinder open, gave it a spin. It was fully loaded, a bullet in every chamber. She knew it would be. Cora always cleaned and reloaded her gun after target practice. It was one of the things her ex-husband Melvin had taught her. Still, she dumped all the bullets out into her hand to make sure none were fired. Satisfied, she reloaded the cylinder, flipped it shut with an expert flick of the wrist.

“You think that reassures me, or are you just showing off?” Becky said.

“I’m just being careful. Isn’t that what you lawyers do, cross the
t
’s and dot the
i
’s wearing a belt and suspenders?”

“I never wear a belt and suspenders,” Becky said.

“Even in that faux-fireman outfit you wore for that calendar?”

“I understand,” Becky said. “You’re sniping at me to cover your fear of Alzheimer’s that makes you doubt your memory.”

“Yeah,” Cora said. “Like when Chief Harper told me about Stuart Tanner.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know? That makes me feel better. That was the killer we put away, first case I worked on. Guy’s been in so long, he came up for parole.”

“He’s getting paroled?”

“No, but he’s eligible. Which is depressing. It’s been so long, I barely remember him. It’s reassuring you don’t remember him either.”

“Actually, that was before I came back to town.”

“Are you sure?”

“You were here when I got here. Probating that old lady’s estate.”

“Oh, yeah.” Cora was vague on those events, but that was back in the days when she was drinking heavily, so her lack of memory was not necessarily due to age.

She did recall one detail. “Wasn’t that when you were riding around on the back of some young hooligan’s motorcycle?”

“He was a very nice young man.”

“He was a murder suspect.”

“He wasn’t guilty.”

“You didn’t know it at the time.”

Becky pouted. “Why are you lashing out at me?”

“I wasn’t lashing out. I was replying in kind.”

“Replying to what? I wasn’t attacking you.”

Cora shrugged. “Things haven’t been the same between us. Ever since Barney Nathan.”

Becky Baldwin’s eyes widened. “You did
not
steal Barney Nathan away from me. I was never
involved
with Barney Nathan.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

“Of course not,” Becky said sarcastically. “After you spread all those rumors about me.”

“What rumors? I said nothing but the unvarnished truth. Did Barney Nathan ask you out on a date?”

“That’s not the point.”

“How is that not the point? It’s not a lie to say he asked you out on a date if he asked you out on a date.”

“I didn’t go.”

“I never said you did.”

Becky took a breath. “Look. I’m an attorney. I could cross-examine you and pin you down, but I don’t want to. You know and I know you manipulated your statements in order to give the
impression
that I was having an affair with Barney Nathan.”

“Now you’re just being paranoid.”

“His wife
slapped
me.”

“See? That probably did more to fuel the rumors than anything
I
ever did.”

“She slapped me
because
you manipulated the truth about Barney and me.”

“How could I do that?”

“I don’t know how you did, but you did. I don’t know
why
you did, either. It’s like you get some wicked thrill out of messing with people.”

“You think I do that?”

“I
know
you do that.”

“Then why ask?”

Becky lapsed into silence. After a few minutes she said, “I don’t see why I have to drive.”

“You wanted to use my car.”

“For a long trip, it’s nicer than my car.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“If you want to use my car, you can drive. A cooperative effort. I provide the car, you provide the driver.”

Becky refrained from comment.

“What’s the guy’s name?” Cora asked.

“Charles Kessington.”

“
Sir
Charles Kessington?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Sounds like royalty, doesn’t it?”

“You think you’re protecting me from some English lord?”

“They can get frisky. Droit du seigneur and all that.”

“He’s not British. He’s American.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to him.”

“You met him?”

“On the phone. I talked to him on the phone.”

“I’m not sure all Englishmen have an accent.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re just trying to humor me so I’ll forget what you did.”

“Oh, come on, Becky. After all I’ve done for you. You’re gonna harp on one little thing?”

“See? I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“I wondered how long it would take before you got to that.”

“Got to what?”

“All you’ve done for me.”

Cora had helped Becky out of a tricky situation involving blackmail that could have scuttled her law practice. It had not been easy. Several legal statutes had to be broken.

“Becky, we’re friends. What kind of a friendship is it if we can’t kid each other over men? You’re ridiculously young. You don’t know what it’s like for a woman of my age just to play in your ballpark.”

Becky got off the highway at Seventy-ninth Street, went through Central Park at Eighty-first.

“Where we going?” Cora said.

“Eighty-fifth and Madison.”

“Good. There’s meters on Madison.”

“How long are they for?”

“An hour.”

“That’s no good. I don’t know how long this is going to take. We’ll have to put it in a garage.”

“You don’t want a garage up here.”

“Why not?”

“We want to park near the Theater District, so we can get the car after the show.”

Aaron had succeeded in getting them tickets to
The Book of Mormon.
Cora was looking forward to it.

“We’ll get another garage down there.”

“That’s going to be expensive.”

“So? The client’s paying for it.”

“I thought he wasn’t your client yet.”

“He’s gonna be. I need the work.”

Becky pulled into a garage on Eighty-fourth Street.

Cora’s mouth fell open at the prices. “My God, it would be cheaper just to leave it here and buy a new car.”

“Relax,” Becky told her. She took the ticket from the parking attendant and surrendered the car keys.

“How do you want to play this?” Cora said.

“What do you mean, ‘play this’? It’s perfectly straightforward. I’m here for a business meeting.”

“How are you going to explain an armed bodyguard?”

“I don’t have to explain anything. Who’s gonna ask me?”

“The doorman will ask who’s calling.”

“I’ll tell him ‘Becky Baldwin to see Mr. Kessington.’”

“He’s not going to ask my name?”

“Why would he?”

“Seems rather inefficient to me. Saying Becky Baldwin is there to see him will be entirely misleading.”

“I certainly hope so,” Becky said.

They went in the building, where a uniformed doorman sat behind a desk. “May I help you?” he said.

“Becky Baldwin to see Mr. Kessington.”

“One moment, please.” The doorman picked up a house phone, punched in a number. “A Miss Becky Baldwin to see you.” He hung up the phone, said, “Go right on up. Apartment P-Two.”

“P-Two?”

“That’s the penthouse.”

“Of course.”

Cora followed Becky into the elevator. Becky pushed
P
.“P-two,” Cora said.

“So?”

“There’s two penthouses. It’s not like he’s got the whole top floor.”

Becky gave her a look.

“I’m just saying. If you’re thinking of marrying the guy.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Well, if you were, he’s not as rich as you thought. Because there’s two penthouses.”

Actually, there were three. Becky and Cora emerged from the elevator to find a longer corridor than they might have expected, with three doors scattered around. Defying logic, P3 was directly in front of them, P1 was to the right, P2 was to the left.

“Confusing,” Cora said. “I’m sure if you live here long enough, you get used to it.”

“Shh.”

“I wonder if this was originally one penthouse and they cut it up.”

“Shut up.”

Becky went down the hall, rang the bell of P2.

They waited, but no one came to the door.

“He must not have heard you,” Cora said.

“He knows we’re coming. He picked up the phone.”

“He knows
you’re
coming,” Cora said. “Ring him again.”

Becky pushed the button. They could hear the chime ringing inside. Again there was no answer.

“He’s gotta be there,” Cora said.

Cora barged in front of Becky, banged on the door.

It opened.

Just an inch, but enough to show it wasn’t locked.

“There you go,” Cora said. “He got tied up on the phone and left the door open for us.” She pushed the door open, walked in.

The foyer was lavishly decorated with a Persian rug, freestanding statuary, and an ornate umbrella stand and coatrack, superfluous on a warm sunny day.

Cora didn’t waste time taking it in. She marched straight through the foyer and the wide double doors into a living room with mahogany walls, brass fixtures, velvet couches, leather chairs, and a marble mantelpiece over an exceptionally wide hearth.

The body of a well-dressed young man lay in front of the fireplace. Blood was seeping from a wound in his forehead.

There was a crossword puzzle on his chest.

Chapter

6

Cora was furious.

“I don’t believe it!” she stormed. “Of all the luck! The best part of getting out of Bakerhaven was not having to be the Puzzle Lady. So what do I find? A goddamned crossword puzzle!”

“There’s also a corpse.”

“That I can handle. I don’t mind corpses. I’m good with corpses. Plus the fact the guy’s dead makes keeping him from molesting you a lot easier. Strictly a win–win. But, oh, no. The killer’s got to leave a crossword puzzle.”

“What does it say?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Oh. That’s right.” Becky was one of the few people who knew Cora couldn’t solve crossword puzzles. She just didn’t know she couldn’t construct them either.

Becky started for the phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the police.”

“What, are you nuts? I thought you were a lawyer. This is a crime scene and you’re going to touch the phone?”

“Right.” Becky whipped out her cell phone.

Cora grabbed her arm. “Let’s not be hasty.”

“What?”

“You haven’t thought this through. We checked in at the front desk. You gave your right name.”

“That’s why we have to call.”

“Yeah, but the doorman called upstairs. This guy took the call. You know what that means. He was killed while we were coming up in the elevator.”

“You mean the killer’s still here?”

“Hell no. The killer heard the call. He knew we were coming up. He killed the guy and split. Which makes it very bad. As far as the doorman is concerned, we’re the ones who killed him.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Why is that stupid?”

“What did we shoot him with? Your gun hasn’t been fired, has it?”

“No.”

“There you are.”

“We could have ditched the weapon.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Thrown it out the window. Dropped it down the garbage chute. Assuming it’s not on the floor somewhere. For all we know, the killer kicked it under the couch.”

“We could prove we didn’t fire it with a paraffin test.”

“We could if we go to court. When we get arrested and booked, it’s not going to cheer me knowing you can get the charges kicked six months down the road.”