Phantom Angel (14 page)

“Okay, who is he?”

“Matthew Puntigam.”

Legs blinked at me. “Aren't he and Hannah Lane a couple?”

“They are.”

“So Matthew Puntigam is…?”

“British,” I said, nodding.

“I was going to say bisexual. What's him being British have to do with anything?”

“All British actors are switch-hitters, according to Cricket.” I watched her as she flitted around the crime scene asking questions and snapping pictures. She was so full of moxie that it didn't occur to anyone that she belonged outside of the cordon with all of the other media people. “And she's one of the theater world's five most influential people, according to the Styles section of
The New York Times
. So it must be true.”

Legs responded to this with a sour grunt, his right knee jiggling, jiggling as we stood there in the suffocating heat. “So what we have here is the brazen midtown shooting of a Broadway legend in broad daylight during the height of the tourist season
and
pretty much everyone who's involved is famous. The mayor is going to be calling Commissioner Feldman ten times a day. Which means Feldman will be calling me
twenty
times a day.”

“I know. Sorry, Legs.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “No prob, little bud. This is how I roll. I think I'm up to speed now, although I'm still a tiny bit confused about one thing. This British hedge fund player, R. J. Farnell…”

“What about him?”

“Is he real or not?”

“There is no such person as R. J. Farnell.”

“Got it. I'm all good now.” His cell phone rang. Legs glanced at its screen and took the call. Listened. Listened some more. Then said, “Okay, we'll be there.” Then he rang off and said, “It's getting stankier. We've both been summoned to 26 Federal Plaza.” That happened to be the address of the New York City field office of the FBI. “Let's ride.”

“Whatever you say. We just have to make one quick stop on the way.”

*   *   *

LEAH HAD ALREADY HEARD
the news. The television in the suite's living room was tuned to CNN's live coverage of the shooting.

“Why would anyone want to hurt
Morrie
?” she asked me forlornly as she sat there on the sofa, clutching a wadded tissue in her hand. Her face was flushed, her eyes red. The woman was devastated. “How will
Wuthering Heights
go on without him? How will
I
go on? God, what will I do?”

I reached for the remote and muted the sound. “You'll keep on going,” I said to her consolingly. “That's what we do, Leah. We have to. Didn't you mention that you have a son who lives in Williamsburg?”

She swallowed, nodding her head. “Charlie.”

“Would you like us to call him for you?”

“Thank you. I'll call him myself in a—a little while.” Leah dabbed at her nose with the tissue, gazing across the coffee table at me. “You're being very sweet, considering the way Morrie talked to you. It was just noise, you know. He didn't mean half of what came out of his mouth. That was just Morrie's way. We worked together, side by side, our whole lives. He was my best friend. We were a team. We were…” She let out a pained sob. “I'm sorry, I'm babbling like a crazy woman, aren't I? I—I just can't believe he's gone. Why would
anyone
want to do this to him?”

“That's what Lieutenant Diamond's going to find out.”

“May I ask you a couple of questions?” Legs said to her. “Or I can come back later if you don't feel up to it right now.”

“No, no, I'm fine.” Leah sat up straighter in her trim linen dress, willing herself back to a state of crisp, professional composure. “Ask me anything, Lieutenant. I want to help.”

“Were you in on this R. J. Farnell scam with Mr. Frankel?”

“No, I was not. Morrie didn't tell me every single thing he was doing. How could he? That man came up with new ideas in his sleep. And he … did keep secrets from me,” she admitted, lowering her eyes.

“He lied to you, you mean,” I said. “He promised you Farnell would come through for him. That's how he convinced you to give him your last hundred thou, isn't it?”

“Well, yes,” Leah allowed.

“That had to be hard,” Legs said.

“Not at all,” she responded sharply. “I was accustomed to Morrie's ways. You'd be amazed at what can seem normal after a while, Lieutenant. Besides, Morrie needed that money desperately. He wasn't worth a cent. All he had were debts. There'll be creditors lined up around the block tomorrow morning.”

“How much did he owe Joe Minetta?” Legs asked her.

“Millions. Don't ask me how many. I don't know.”

“Was there anything on paper? Did Mr. Frankel ever sign a promissory note?”

“Never. It was strictly cash and a handshake with Joe. Which was fine by Morrie. He liked doing business that way, too. I used to keep tens of thousands in cash downstairs in the hotel's safe. Not anymore. All that's left is a few hundred dollars in my office strongbox. And would you believe he owed the Morley three months back rent on this suite?” She looked around at the worn furniture and food-stained walls. “They could have kicked him out if they'd wanted to, but they took pity on him.
Pity
. That's how far he'd fallen. Such a great, great producer. They should name a theater after him. No one gave more to Broadway than Morrie Frankel did. I—I wonder if they'll even dim the lights on the marquees for him tonight.”

“That's the traditional Broadway tribute when someone of his stature passes away,” I said. “I'm sure they will.”

She looked at me surprised. “Really? I'm not. The other producers all hated him, you know. Morrie didn't just burn bridges. He dynamited them. I'll … try to keep the office open for the time being. I'll be getting phone calls from the press. And the lawyers and agents will be calling.
Wuthering Heights
was his last great discovery. And the show must go on, right?” Leah let out a mournful sigh, her resolve crumbling. “My God, will you listen to me? There is no
Wuthering Heights
. Or at least not with this company's participation. Not now. Not ever.”

“Why not, Leah?”

“Because Matthew and Hannah were under contract to Morrie Frankel Productions. And Morrie Frankel Productions owned the rights to the book, the music, lyrics. Morrie
was
Morrie Frankel Productions. He was a one-man band. There was no organization, no chain of succession. Just Morrie.”

“And I'm guessing,” Legs said slowly, “that all of those very talented people have very smart lawyers who made absolutely sure they inserted an out-clause in case anything unfortunate should happen to that one-man band.”

“Naturally,” Leah said. “With Morrie gone those contracts will be voided. Matthew and Hannah will be free to sign with anyone else they choose. The whole creative team will be. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? These awful people who shot Morrie did more than just kill him. They did something ten times worse. They stole his show out from under him.”

*   *   *

“DO YOU THINK
that's why he was killed?”

“Don't you?” I said, holding on for dear life as we rocketed down Fifth Avenue in Legs' dented, sprung Crown Vic. Pedal to the metal is the only way he knows how to drive—slowpokes, delivery vans and potholes be damned.

“It plays in terms of motive, that's for damned sure. Except I've got a couple of problems, such as—”

“Why bother,” I said, nodding. “Morrie was already circling the drain. Why not just wait for him to lose
Wuthering Heights
on his own?”

“Well, yeah.”

“What's your other problem?”

“The shooting. It has the outward appearance of being a professional hit, except it's what I call a disorganized homicide.”

“Disorganized as in…?”

“Busy street, lots of witnesses. It was planned, no question. But pros like to work in the quiet and the dark. And they don't like witnesses.” Legs brooded in silence for a moment before he said, “What'll happen to that lady?”

“Leah's a top theatrical assistant. My guess? Somebody will find a place for her.”

“And what about
Wuthering Heights
?”

“That I don't have to guess about. Ira Gottfried will take it over and Panorama will make a fortune. Just think how much free publicity this show's about to get. Morrie's murder is a tabloid dream. It's huge, Legs.”

“Huge,” Legs agreed as he sped past Madison Square Park toward the Flatiron Building. At 23rd Street he veered left onto Broadway. His cell phone rang. He took the call. Listened. Listened some more. Then said, “Okay, good. Thanks.” Rang off and said, “They used a license plate reader to track the Navigator. It left Manhattan through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel less than a half hour after the shooting. Came in through the very same tunnel from Queens at seven minutes after ten this morning.”

“Who owns it?”

“A housewife in Bayside. She reported it stolen out of a Waldbaum's parking lot in Flushing shortly before nine o'clock.” Legs glanced across the seat at me. “How's your mom doing?”

“She's good. Stop by and say hi. She misses you.”

“I miss her, too. Abby's one of the great ones. And what's up with Rita?”

“She's seeing a dentist named Myron.”

“So you two aren't together anymore?”

“We were never ‘together.' We were just a couple of friends helping each other through a rough patch.”

He flashed a grin at me. “Rita's six feet tall. She's totally hot. She used to be a lap dancer. And you're making it sound like it was no big deal, you player. Hell, I can remember when you were afraid to ask little Cricket out on a date. Although now that I've met her I can see why.”

“Legs, I was a whole lot younger then.”

“Dude, it was three years ago.”

“Don't exaggerate. It was five. Okay, four. And how about you?” Legs is a lone wolf. His longest relationship lasted three weeks. “What's up between you and Sue Herrera of OCCB?”

“What makes you think anything is?”

“You cock-blocked me when I mentioned her name to you on the phone.”

“That wasn't a cock-block. That was a friendly warning. She's toting excess baggage—an eight-year-old daughter
and
a restraining order against her ex, Richie, who's on the job and has anger management issues, as in he likes to beat the crap out of Sue whenever he gets loaded. It's a package deal. And it's not for me.
She's
not for me. So let's just drop the subject,” he growled. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because you brought it up.”

“Watch yourself, cowboy. I can still pound the snot out of you.”

“Don't be so sure. I've got some wicked new moves.”

Our destination, 26 Federal Plaza—officially known as the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building—is a huge fortress of granite and glass that's located across Foley Square from the New York County Courthouse. There are concrete bollards placed strategically outside of the building to keep car bombers from getting any ideas. And there are checkpoints galore. We had to pass through three of them in order to reach the FBI's offices up on the 23rd floor.

The meeting we'd been summoned to didn't take place in somebody's private office. Or in one of those formal conference rooms where a bunch of Very Serious People sit around a long table while another Very Serious Person delivers a PowerPoint presentation. No, we met in a small, windowless room that would have served nicely as a break room if it had a refrigerator and a microwave. Which it didn't.

Three people were crammed in there waiting for us. One was our good friend Sue Herrera, who looked exceedingly tense. One was an FBI Special Agent named Jack Dytman, who was maybe thirty-five, skinny and bucktoothed, with flaky hair of no particular color and a heat rash on his neck that looked itchy and angry and just plain awful. I mean it, the man's neck looked like raw ground round. Dytman was also the possessor of a truly damp handshake. My dad taught me to never, ever trust a man who has a truly damp handshake. The third person was Gino Cimoli, a U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York City, which means Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island. Cimoli was in charge. He let us know this by staying on his feet, one foot planted firmly on an empty chair, while the rest of us were seated. He had a cocky, blustery air about him. Which was to be expected. Federal prosecutors don't tend to be shrinking violets. Purple people eaters is more like it. Think Chris Christie. Think Rudy Giuliani. Don't think matinee idol. Cimoli was tubby, jowly and a bona fide chrome dome. He was also in need of a serious style makeover by Joe Minetta. The man's dark gray Zegna knockoff didn't help him one bit. The pants were way too roomy in the seat. Plus he wore an unstylish sneer on his face that I'm guessing had been there since the first time he went away to sleepover camp and got tagged with the nickname of Lumpy. Cimoli was trying real hard to impress Sue Herrera. I know this because he was sucking in his stomach and puffing out his chest. He had no chance. Not with Legs in the room. None.

“There are some questions we need to ask you, Mr. Golden,” he began gruffly. “And we expect honest answers.”

“Do I need to call my honest lawyer?”

“That wouldn't be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because that would mean that we were actually having this conversation. Do we understand each other?”

“Not really, but I'm kind of slow.”

“It means that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” Special Agent Dytman said, craning his itchy neck.

I looked at Legs. “Did you bring your decoder ring?”