Phantom Angel (13 page)

The conversation between them seemed pleasant enough. Morrie did wave his arms in the air a bit, but that was just Morrie being Morrie. Joe seemed calm and collected. It was a brief conversation. Less than ten minutes. And when it was over they shook hands, smiled and parted amicably.

Joe sauntered off in the direction of the library with an unlit cigar between his fingers—there's no smoking in the park—and his jacket still draped over his shoulders. He seemed to be in no hurry to get anywhere. His bodyguards followed him like a pair of well-trained rottweilers.

Morrie took a bluestone path that led out of the park onto 42nd Street midway between Fifth and Sixth, directly across the street from the SUNY College of Optometry. I stayed with him as he turned left and started his way back toward Sixth amongst the tourists and street vendors who crowded the sidewalk. I was maybe a hundred yards behind him when a white Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows came our way from Sixth and pulled up next to him, stopping at the curb. He strolled right on by it, paying it no notice. The Navigator's passenger door opened and someone hopped out. Someone wearing a pair of wraparound shades, a baggy gray hoody with its hood up, baggy gray sweatpants and running shoes. Someone smallish and slim of build, though the sweats made it hard to tell just how slim. Someone who came up swiftly behind Morrie, raised an arm and shot him once, twice, three times in the back from less than three feet away with a nickel-plated 9mm semiautomatic handgun. A Smith & Wesson by the look of it. Not a quiet weapon. Everyone heard it. And at least two-dozen people were close enough to see it happen. Many of those people screamed as Morrie fell face-first to the pavement and stayed there while the shooter jumped back in the Navigator, leaving the shell casings behind on the sidewalk. I swiveled around and snapped a photo of the Navigator's license plate as its driver floored it toward Fifth Avenue, where it made a screeching right turn and disappeared around the corner heading downtown.

The entire hit took no more than ten seconds.

Someone had turned Morrie over. I knelt beside him as he lay there, gasping and gurgling, his eyes bulging blindly.

“Who was it, Morrie? Who did it?”

He grabbed me by my shirt and tried to speak, but couldn't. Then he shuddered violently and was gone.

The great Morrie Frankel was wrong. He wasn't eternal.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

BY THE TIME
LEGS GOT THERE
the first responders from Midtown South had already cordoned off the crime scene. The techies were photographing and tagging any and all evidence. The M.E.'s man was attending to the late, great Morrie Frankel. These were people who moved fast, heat wave or no heat wave. So was Cricket, who showed up less than sixty seconds after the first responders did.

“Cricket, how on earth did you get here already?”

“I have my sources at Midtown South,” she informed me as she snapped an iPhone picture of Morrie lying there dead on the sidewalk. “Talk to me, cutie. What happened?”

“Somebody shot him.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“I saw it.”

Her eyes gleamed at me eagerly. “And…?”

“I have nothing to say, Cricket.”

She swatted my arm. “Come on, Benji. I was your first sweetie. Doesn't that count for anything?”

“You mean aside from a lot of awkward memories? This investigation isn't going to get cracked on your Web site. Just forget it, okay?”

“Why are you being such a butthead?”

“Maybe because I really don't like it when a client dies in my arms.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Go away, Cricket.”

She went away. Began talking to some of the tourists who'd witnessed the shooting. By now an army of TV news crews was arriving in vans, one after another after another.

And then I realized that Legs was standing next to me on the sidewalk. I wasn't surprised to see him there. Broadway's most famous producer had just been gunned down on 42nd Street in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses. The mayor would want to know that Commissioner Dante Feldman cared enough to send his very best.

Legs Diamond has six years and seven inches on me. Back when he joined the force out of Brooklyn College my dad took an interest in him. Changed his diapers and whispered in the right ears when Legs wanted to make detective. He knew that Legs was someone super smart. Someone who wasn't afraid to ruffle feathers. Someone special.

“What have you got for me, little bud?”

“One dead client named Morrie Frankel. I was tailing him.”

“What was he doing?”

“Having a brief, polite conversation in the park with Joe Minetta.”

Legs raised his eyebrows. “You don't say.”

“I do say.”

He thought this over, the secretaries and shop girls in their summer dresses casting lingering looks at him as they sidled their way around the police cordon. Legs is a guy who gets stared at by women. He has a lot of wavy black hair, soulful dark eyes and a goatee. He was wearing a black T-shirt that was molded to his wiry frame, tight jeans and motorcycle boots. Legs is kind of my idol in the looks department. Kind of my idol, period. The only thing I don't envy about him is his hyper-intensity. The man never relaxes.

“Did Frankel hire you to tail him?” he asked me, his right knee jiggling, jiggling.

“Not exactly. It was my own idea. In fact, he un-hired me a couple of hours ago, or tried to. I'd already quit.”

“Okay, we'll get to that in a sec. What did you see?”

“A white Navigator with tinted windows pulled up. A shooter in full Unabomber regalia, on the small side, jumped out of the front passenger seat, shot him three times in the back from close range, jumped back in and the Navigator took off down Fifth. I gave your people the license number.” My eyes scanned the buildings directly across the street. “The College of Optometry will have security cams in the lobby. So will the Banco do Brasil. And that's just for starters, am I right?”

He peered at me. “Where are you going with this?”

“You know exactly where I'm going. The CCTV cameras. The ones that no one talks about.”

“True that,” he conceded. “There are closed-circuit surveillance cameras covering every highly populated section of midtown. It's a Homeland Security thing. And this is freaking Bryant Park. So, yeah, we'll have footage up the wazoo. It'll take a lot of eyeballs a lot of hours but we'll be able to track where that Navigator was before the shooting and where it went afterward, no doubt. You said Frankel un-hired you?”

“I said I quit.”

“Why did he hire you in the first place?”

“He was drowning in debt. Wanted us to find a Mr. R. J. Farnell, a British hedge fund player who was supposed to save
Wuthering Heights
for him. It turned out that Farnell was a phantom angel, as in Morrie made him up. He made up a girlfriend for us to look for, too. Was hoping to buy himself a couple of weeks to raise the money he needed. He brought us on board to provide him with cover. It was a crap case. I bailed.”

“So why were you following him?”

“I don't like to be used.”

He flashed a grin at me. “You're just like your father, know that?”

“The shooter's weapon looked like a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson 9 mil to me. That's not a particularly lightweight weapon, is it?”

“Weighs maybe a pound and a half. Why are you asking?”

“No reason in particular.”

He studied me closely. “Let's widen out here. Could Joe Minetta have been the intended target?”

“That's a no. Joe Minetta took off in the other direction when they parted company. He was way over by the library when it went down.”

“Any chance that it was Minetta who arranged the hit?”

“That's a yes. Except no.”

“Why not?”

“Joe Minetta's a big-time Broadway loan shark. A loan shark doesn't kill a producer who owes him money. He takes his show away from him. Minetta would have to be a hotheaded idiot to gun down Morrie, especially on a crowded midtown sidewalk less than five minutes after they parted company. And Minetta is no hotheaded idiot.”

Legs thumbed his goatee thoughtfully. “And yet Frankel was rubbed out pro style by a shooter and driver who knew exactly where to find him. How on earth would they know that unless they were tipped off?”

“I have no idea, Legs. But you're right. They were waiting for him.”

“Which tells me that either Minetta ordered the hit or that you weren't the only one who was following Frankel. Did you spot anybody else?”

“That's a no.”

“Did you see Minetta signal anybody?”

“That's also a no. You really think he ordered the hit?”

“Well, yeah. Unless you've got another way of selling it to me. In which case please do. Who else would want to take out a Broadway legend like Morrie Frankel?”

“You mean besides virtually everyone who knew him?”

Legs frowned at me. “So it's like that, is it?”

“Yeah, it's like that.”

“OMG, it's Legs Diamond!” Cricket burbled excitedly as she charged her way over toward us. “Now we are talking
serious
big time! What can you tell us, Legs?”

He looked at her blankly. “Who is
us
?”

“My readers, Legs. I get hundreds of thousands of hits a day.”

“And you are…?”

“Meet Cricket O'Shea,” I said to him.

“You're
the
Cricket?” Legs studied her with keen interest now. “I remember Benji talking about you back when you two were an item.”

Her face lit up. “Really? What did he say about me?”

“Sorry, that's in the guy vault. Tell me,
the
Cricket, how'd you get inside of our crime scene perimeter?”

“I started out inside of your crime scene perimeter, that's how. So who do you think shot Morrie, Legs? What's your working theory?”

“I don't have one. Just got here. But, hey, feel free to share yours.”

“Who, me? Glad to. I say there's a sixty-five-million-dollar Broadway musical that was ready to lift off the ground and Morrie was holding it back. I say that one of its principals made sure he couldn't do that anymore. That's just this reporter's opinion, Legs, but can I say that
you
said it? I'll call you an unnamed source with intimate knowledge of the investigation. How would that be?”

“Would it do any good if I said no freaking way?”

“None.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “One more question—would you please be the father of my first child?”

“Go away, Cricket,” I said.

She went away, thumbing out a tweet as she darted off.

Legs grinned at me. “So that's
the
Cricket. She's kind of cute, in a deranged sort of way.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Hugely. In fact, I'd say my day has been made.” He narrowed his eyes at me, back to business. “You said Frankel made up a girlfriend for you to look for. Did you find her?”

I nodded. “Jonquil Beausoleil, an aspiring actress who was a high-school cheerleader in Ruston, Louisiana until she ran away from home four months ago.”

“Hence your involvement.”

“Hence my involvement. Boso—she calls herself Boso—is currently appearing daily and nightly as a webcam girl for various Internet porn sites that the Minettas operate out of a high-rise apartment building in Staten Island. That's how I ran into your friend Sue Herrera of OCCB this morning. They have the building under surveillance.”

“How did this girl get mixed up with Frankel?”

“Morrie needed a girl. Joe Minetta got him one. Morrie promised Boso an understudy role in
Wuthering Heights
if she'd pretend to be R. J. Farnell's girlfriend-slash-executive assistant. He told her he was playing a prank on a friend. She went along with it. Rented a shmancy beach house in East Hampton for him. But it was all one big lie—including the business about casting her in
Wuthering Heights
. He never had any intention of hiring that girl.”

“Does she know that?”

“She knows it. I told her. I felt I owed it to her, one struggling actor to another. Besides, she's not a bad sort. Had herself a nice, rich boyfriend until a few weeks ago. The guy's crazy about her. But you know how that goes.”

“Meaning she's damaged goods?”

“To the bone.”

“Her scumbag father?”

“Her scumbag stepfather.”

“How did she take it when you set her straight about Frankel?”

“Not well.”

“Would you say she has a temper?”

“She has a temper.”

“And when did you set her straight?”

“About three hours ago. We were in Central Park.”

“Sounds to me like Boso could be a player.”

“For a gangland style rubout? Get real.”

“All it takes is a hoody, a Navigator and a dream.”

“And a partner. It was a two-person job, remember?”

“You just told me she had a boyfriend who's crazy about her, remember?”

“That's right, I did,” I had to admit.

“Any idea where she is right now?”

“None.”

Legs mulled this over. “Who else had a beef with Frankel?”

“Matthew Puntigam and Hannah Lane. Morrie was screaming at Matthew on the phone when I showed up at his hotel to quit. Promised he'd sue if they tried to get out of their contract with him.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

“Because Ira Gottfried, their Panorama uber-boss, has been messing with their heads. Or so Morrie claimed.”

“Messing with their heads as in…?”

“Telling them Panorama will never make a film version of
Wuthering Heights
unless it owns the stage rights. Which it doesn't. Morrie wouldn't let Gottfried within ten feet of his show. He was the last of the independents. Gottfried's not someone who takes no for an answer. He's recruited Henderson Lebow, who was the show's original director until Morrie punched him out and fired him. The four of them—Ira Gottfried, Henderson Lebow, Matthew Puntigam and Hannah Lane—made a very public show of having dinner together last night at Zoot Alors. It made Morrie froth at the mouth. Oh, and it may interest you to know that Morrie and Henderson were lovers until Morrie caught Henderson two-timing him with a certain younger man. Now you'll want to ask me who this younger man is.”