Read Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) Online
Authors: Phillip Margolin
Charles Benedict tried to get in touch with Gregor Karpinski all day. He called Gregor twice and got voice mail. He left a message telling the Russian to call him about his legal bill. When he still had not heard by eight in the evening, Benedict called The Scene and asked for Kenny Ito, one of the bartenders.
“Kenny, Charlie Benedict here. I need to talk to Gregor Karpinski. Something’s come up in one of his legal matters but he’s not answering his phone.”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Gregor got fucked up last night.”
“Fucked up how?”
“I don’t know how it happened. I just heard some of the guys talking. All I know is that he’s in the hospital, and it’s bad.”
“Do you know what hospital he’s in?”
Ito told him. Benedict thanked him and hung up. He leaned back and thought. All Gregor was supposed to do was threaten some girl. How could a girl “fuck up” Gregor? The guy was a monster.
Benedict fished out the business card Tiffany Starr had showed him shortly before he gutted her. He went on his computer and Googled
Exposed
. Loren Parkhurst was not listed as an employee. Benedict thought about that. Just because she wasn’t listed didn’t mean she didn’t work for the paper. She could freelance.
Benedict typed Parkhurst’s name into the search engine. Nothing. Now,
that
was strange. If Parkhurst were a journalist, she should have published something somewhere. He didn’t like this. A woman journalist who didn’t show up on the Internet and who was capable of “fucking up” a beast like Gregor Karpinski.
Benedict thought some more, and the more he thought, the more concerned he became. Gregor could tell the cops that Charlie had asked him to threaten Parkhurst. Worse still, if Gregor talked, Nikolai could learn that Charlie used Gregor without his permission. He and Nikolai got along pretty well, but Nikolai was unpredictable.
What to do? What to do? After giving that question some serious thought, only one viable solution presented itself.
The drugs! Gregor craved the drugs. When they wore off, the pain returned. When he was a child, Gregor had learned the hard way how to deal with pain inflicted by fists, kicks, belts, and sticks wielded by his father and his fellow schoolboys. Then he grew and thickened and became the one who inflicted the pain. He was used to fighting in prisons and bars and back alleys. But that pain wasn’t like the pain that bitch had created.
Gregor never suspected that the whore might be armed and would have the guts to stab him like that, in that place. Some women fought back at first. He liked that. It excited him. Most of the women begged and pleaded. Eventually they all became obedient and willing to do anything to avoid a beating. Except this one.
No woman had ever done to him what that bitch had done. And she would pay. He would find her and he would . . . He was about to think “fuck her,” but he might never be able to fuck anyone ever again.
The thought brought tears to Gregor’s eyes. Suddenly he was so sad. What had she done to him? How could she? What if she had taken his manhood? What if he . . . ? No, he could not let himself think about that. And no matter what he could not do, he could always make her suffer and scream the way she had made him scream. Oh, he looked forward to that. The hate kept him going.
Then something horrible occurred to Gregor. He was starting to think clearly! If he could think clearly it meant the drugs were wearing off. Suddenly the pain touched him ever so lightly; just enough to turn his hands into fists and compel him to suck in a breath. Soon it would sink its claws in him, and that would be very, very bad. But the bad thing would not happen because Gregor had his magic button, his precious button. Press the button and morphine raced through him and swept away the pain. He started to reach for his wonderful, special button, but strong fingers gripped him and pressed his hand against the side of the bed.
The drugs dulled Gregor’s reflexes and it took forever to turn his head and focus. When he did he found himself staring into the lifeless eyes of Peter Perkovic.
Gregor was in a private room, lying in a hospital bed. His complexion was the color of dead fish and wires ran from many parts of his body into machines with multicolored lights and electronic readouts. The machines beeped and buzzed. Normally even someone as physically powerful as Gregor Karpinski would feel fear when subjected to Perkovic’s cold stare, but Gregor was still floating in a druggy haze.
“Peter?” he said. When he spoke, his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton.
“You don’t look so good, Gregor. How are you feeling?”
There was something odd about Perkovic, but Gregor had trouble tracking.
“That bitch fucked me up,” he answered, his speech badly slurred and his eyes unfocused. “She stabbed me.”
“That’s awful,” Peter said just as Gregor figured out what was bothering him. Peter was dressed in a green smock and loose green pants. He was dressed like a doctor or an orderly. How strange.
“Are you working in the hospital?” Gregor asked. He sounded loopy.
“No, Gregor. It was just easier to visit dressed like this.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly the pain struck and Gregor flinched. It was only a pale shadow of the pain that would come if he didn’t press the button. He tried to raise his hand, but he didn’t have the strength to break Peter’s grip.
“Soon, Gregor. Soon I will let you press the button,” Peter said. “But first you must tell me what happened.”
Gregor started to tear up. “She stabbed me in my prick, Peter, in my balls.”
“That’s terrible. Why did she do that?”
“I told her what to do but she would not obey. Then she hurt me.”
“What did you tell her? What order did she disobey?”
“To back off, to stop asking questions about the Blair case.”
“Ah, did Nikolai ask you to speak to this woman?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you ask Nikolai if you could threaten her?”
“He told me Nikolai said it was okay.”
“Someone said this?”
“Yes. You know I wouldn’t do anything unless Nikolai said it was okay. He told me he’d talked to Nikolai and Nikolai said it was okay. Nikolai isn’t mad at me, is he?”
“No, no, Gregor. Nikolai wishes you well. He hopes you make a full recovery.”
The pain hit and this time Gregor arched his back and grimaced.
“One more answer and you can press the button. Who told you to talk to the woman?”
“Charlie, Charlie Benedict, the lawyer. He said it was okay. Please.”
“Thank you, Gregor. Nikolai wanted me to tell you something. This woman who stabbed you . . .”
“He doesn’t have to worry. As soon as I’m out, I’ll make her scream, I’ll rip her up.”
“No, no, Gregor. Nikolai does not want you near this woman. She is off-limits to you forever.”
“What?”
Gregor spasmed. The pain was becoming unbearable.
“Say you understand. Say you will forget about this woman forever.”
“Please,” Gregor begged.
“Say it.”
“I won’t hurt her ever. Ahhh!”
Peter released Gregor’s hand and he stabbed at the button until the morphine chased the pain. Within moments, he forgot the woman and Peter and everything else because he was floating high above his troubles on a cloud of good feeling.
Perkovic studied Karpinski for a few seconds more, then shook his head. Gregor was an idiot, a fearsome windup toy. Peter knew he would forget his promise, but Peter would remind Gregor when he was well enough to remember. Now he had to tell Nikolai about Charles Benedict.
Dana was surprised to see Stephanie Robb follow Frank Santoro into Vinny’s.
“I told Steph I hired you and what you learned in Kansas City,” Santoro said. “She’s pissed that I went behind her back but she agrees that it’s time for all of us to get on the same page.”
“And just so you know,” Robb added, “I still think Horace Blair killed his wife, but after what you found out about Benedict, I’m willing to listen.”
“I also told her about the chow here,” Santoro said as the waitress came over and everyone ordered burgers, fries, and beer.
“I’ve been giving this case a lot of thought,” Santoro said when the waitress left, “and I’m convinced that Charles Benedict killed Carrie Blair and is framing Horace for her murder. I don’t know why he killed Carrie, but let’s assume that he did. Can we account for the evidence against Horace in a way that implicates Benedict?
“Let’s start with the keys. Something about them bothered me when we conducted our experiment at Blair’s mansion. Do you remember what the keys looked like, Steph?”
Robb looked confused. “They looked like keys.”
“Right, but there was something odd about one of them. The two keys we found in the grave—the single key and the front-door key on Carrie’s key chain—looked old and abused. They were dull, they had scratches on them. The key we took from Blair that wouldn’t open the front door resembled the keys from the grave but looked much newer and less worn.”
“Why is that important?” Robb asked.
“Remember Ernest Brodsky?”
“Of course.”
“Remember how he earned his living?”
As soon as she made the connection Robb looked sick.
“Dana and I went over the surveillance tapes we got from the River View Mall. On Tuesday morning, a Porsche resembling Carrie Blair’s Porsche entered the mall’s parking lot. I couldn’t read the whole license plate but two of the letters match Carrie’s license and are in the right place on the plate.
“Around the time I saw the Porsche on the tape, a man entered Brodsky’s store and left carrying a small paper bag that was big enough to hold several keys. The man made a real effort to keep his face hidden. He was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood and he kept his head down. I went over Brodsky’s receipts for Tuesday. He sold two keys for cash right around the time the man in the hoodie went into his shop.
“Later that night, shortly after Brodsky closed his store, a Mercedes drove out of the mall. Brodsky’s car was found in the mall parking lot, so it’s a good guess that he was kidnapped from the mall. Benedict drives a Mercedes.
“Here’s the way I see it. Benedict kills Carrie and figures out a way to frame Blair for his wife’s murder that includes making it look like Blair dropped his front-door key in Carrie’s grave while he was burying her. He has Brodsky make a key that looks like Blair’s front-door key but isn’t. Then he kills Brodsky so he can’t be a witness. If I’m right, we also know how the gun, hairs, and blood got in the trunk of the Bentley. The second key Brodsky made was a copy of the Bentley key Carrie had on her key chain.”
“This is all guesswork, Frank,” Robb said.
Santoro smiled. “Not completely. As soon as I made the connection between this case and Brodsky’s murder, I called Wilda Parks at the crime lab and asked her if there was any way to tell if the key on Horace Blair’s key chain—the one that wouldn’t open the front door—had been made in Ernest Brodsky’s store.
“There’s a whole branch of forensics that involves tool-mark identification. Wilda explained that keys are made from blanks that don’t have any ‘cuts.’ ‘Cuts’ are the ridges on the key that
interface
with the components of a lock. If they are positioned correctly they cause the lock to lock or unlock. These cuts are made in a grinding machine. Different grinding machines will leave different tool marks on a key shaped by that machine.
“I checked with Stuart Lang at the River View Mall. Brodsky’s grinding machines are still in his store. Wilda called this morning. The tool marks on the key on Horace’s key chain—the newer-looking key—were made by Brodsky’s machine.”
“But what about the fingerprints, Frank?” Robb asked. “Horace Blair’s prints were on the key we found in the grave. Blair didn’t have a key to his front door on his key chain, so the key in the grave is probably his front-door key. How did Benedict get Blair’s key?”
“I don’t know,” Santoro said. “But Blair called Benedict as soon as we arrested him. That means they knew each other. I’m sure Blair could tell us if Benedict had an opportunity to get the key. Unfortunately, we can’t ask him because Benedict won’t let us talk to his client. But let’s forget about the key for now. There’s one more connection between Brodsky and this case. Why was Barry Lester in isolation, Steph?”
“He had a fight with one of Nikolai Orlansky’s goons.”
“Gregor Karpinski is a beast. Lester’s not. He’s a wimp. So why would Lester provoke Karpinski? I think it was a setup to get Lester into isolation so he could snitch on Blair. If you remember, Benedict really worked us over to get us to put Blair in isolation. Well, Benedict also represented Karpinski in an assault case.
“Now, here is the clincher for me. If Blair didn’t confess to Lester, then someone fed Lester the location of the grave and the contents of the prenup. Only two people talked to Lester while he was in jail. Dana interviewed one of those people, Lester’s girlfriend, Tiffany Starr. The next day, Starr was stabbed to death. I read the autopsy reports in Starr’s and Brodsky’s cases, then I talked to Nick Winters. In both cases, the knife wounds were almost identical: one shot to the heart.”
“Fuck,” Robb said.
“Yeah, Steph, I agree.”
“There’s something else that links Karpinski and Tiffany Starr,” Dana said. “I talked to Starr on the day she was killed. That night, Karpinski lured me to an industrial park and threatened to rape me if I kept asking questions about the Blair case.”
“Are you okay?” Robb asked with real concern.
Dana nodded.
“Karpinski isn’t so hot, though,” Santoro said. “Dana put him in the hospital.”
“How could you possibly do that?” Robb asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Santoro said.
“I’m certain the fight between Lester and Karpinski was a setup,” Dana said, anxious to change the subject. “I’d bet everything I own that Blair never confessed to Lester. And if he didn’t, then the odds are that Tiffany Starr told Lester where to find the grave and what was in the prenup. If you need more proof, check Tiffany’s bank account. You’ll find a recent two-thousand-dollar deposit.”
“How do you know that?” Robb asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Dana answered.
“Damn,” Robb said. “I was so sure Blair offed her. Now I don’t know what to think.”
“I’m sure that Benedict has been leading us around by the nose, but I don’t have any idea how we can prove it,” Santoro said.
“If we could talk to Blair, he could tell us if Benedict had an opportunity to get his house key,” Dana said, her frustration
evident
.
“That’s something that’s not going to happen as long as Benedict is Blair’s attorney,” Santoro said.
By the time Dana got home she was exhausted. Jake was watching a basketball game. Dana pecked him on the cheek, headed straight for the bedroom, and fell instantly into such a deep sleep that she never noticed when Jake climbed into bed an hour later.
Sometime during the night Dana started dreaming. In her dream she was in a narrow shop with a low ceiling. There was almost no light, and the confined space was making her claustrophobic. Dana wanted to get out of the shop, but the floor was covered with so many keys that she could barely move. She was starting to panic because each step made her sink deeper into the pile of keys, which sucked at her like quicksand. Dana struggled toward the door. She began flailing and she didn’t stop until she shot up in bed, damp with perspiration, her heart beating furiously.
Dana cast a quick glance at Jake to see if she’d awakened him but he was sleeping soundly. She went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and sat at the table. It was four in the morning and the sky was pitch-black. No moon, no starlight. She could sure use something to illuminate the problem Charles Benedict had posed for her, Dana thought. She was certain he had murdered Carrie Blair, but she hadn’t a clue as to how she could prove it.
If only they could ask Horace Blair if Benedict had an opportunity to get Horace’s front-door key. But no one could talk to Blair while Charles Benedict was representing him.
Then an idea occurred to Dana. She smiled. She thought about it some more and her smile widened. To the best of her knowledge, she and Charles Benedict had never met, and Benedict definitely did not know about the Ottoman Scepter. Dana looked at the clock on the kitchen stove. It was 4:45 on the East Coast and three hours earlier out west. Dana was fired up, but she knew that she would have to practice patience, because Marty Draper would be too upset to give her a crash course on Asian antiquities if she woke him out of a deep sleep at 1:45 in the morning.