While My Pretty One Sleeps (28 page)

If only it doesn't all get screwed up, he thought.

He had instinctively been expecting the cops, but, even so, the brisk rap on the door, the invitation to step down to headquarters for questioning, unnerved him.

At the precinct, he was startled when he received the Miranda warning. “You gotta be kidding.”

“We tend to be overcautious,” Detective Gomez said soothingly. “Remember, Doug, you don't need to answer questions. You can
call a lawyer. Or, you can stop answering questions whenever you say the word.”

Doug thought of Ethel's money; Ethel's co-op; the chick at work who had big eyes for him; throwing up his job; telling off that scum who was his immediate boss. He assumed a solicitous stance. “I'm perfectly agreeable to answering any questions.”

That first one from Detective O'Brien threw him for a loop. “Last Thursday, you went to the bank and withdrew four hundred dollars which you took in hundred-dollar bills. No point in denying that, Doug. We checked it. That was the money we found in the apartment, wasn't it, Doug? Now, why would you put it there when you told us your aunt always found the money she accused you of taking?”

•   •   •

Myles slept from midnight till five-thirty. When he woke, he knew there was no chance of dozing off again. There was nothing he detested more than lying in bed on the off chance that he could slip back into the arms of Morpheus. He got up, reached for a bathrobe and went into the kitchen.

Over a cup of freshly perked decaffeinated coffee, he step-by-step examined the events of the week. His initial sense of release that had stemmed from Nicky Sepetti's death was fading. Why?

He glanced around the orderly kitchen. Last night he'd silently approved of the way Jack Campbell had assisted Neeve in clearing. Jack knew his way around a kitchen. Myles half smiled, thinking of his own father. A great guy. “Himself,” his mother said when referring to him. But God knows, Pop had never carried a dish to the sink or
minded a child or pushed a vacuum around. Today's young husbands were different. And it was a good difference.

What kind of husband had he been to Renata? Good by most people's standards. “I loved her,” Myles said now, his voice barely above a whisper, “I was proud of her. We had fun together. But I wonder how well I knew her. How much of my father's son was I during our marriage? Did I ever take her seriously outside of her role as wife and mother?”

Last night, or was it the night before, he'd told Jack Campbell that Renata had taught him about wine. I was busy clearing off my rough spots in those days, Myles thought, remembering how before he met Renata he had quietly set on a program of self-improvement. Tickets to Carnegie Hall. Tickets to the Met. Dutiful visits to the Museum of Art.

It was Renata who had changed those dutiful visits to exciting expeditions of discovery. Renata, who when she came home from an opera would hum the music in her strong clear soprano. “Milo,
caro
, are you the only Irishman in the world who is tone deaf?” she would tease.

In the eleven wonderful years we had, we were only beginning to plumb all that we would have become to each other
.

Myles got up and poured a second cup of coffee. Why was this awareness so strong? What was eluding him? Something. Something. Oh, Renata, he begged. I don't know why, but I'm worried about Neeve. I've done my best for her these seventeen years. But she's your kid, too. Is she in trouble?

The second cup of coffee revived his spirits and he began to feel
slightly foolish. When Neeve came yawning into the kitchen, he was sufficiently recovered to say, “Your publisher is a good pot-walloper.”

Neeve grinned, bent down to kiss the top of Myles's head and replied, “So it's ‘pretty Kitty Conway.' I approve, Commish. It's about time you started looking over the ladies. After all, you're not getting any younger.” She ducked to avoid his swat.

•   •   •

Neeve chose a pale-pink-and-gray Chanel suit with gold buttons, gray leather pumps and a matching shoulder bag to wear to work. She pulled her hair into a smooth chignon.

Myles nodded his approval. “I like that kind of outfit. Better than Saturday's checkerboard. I must say, you have your mother's taste in clothes.”

“Approbation from Sir Hubert is praise indeed.” At the door, Neeve hesitated. “Commish, are you going to indulge me and ask the Medical Examiner if there's any chance Ethel's clothes were changed after she died?”

“I hadn't thought about it.”

“Please think about it. And even if you don't approve, do it for my sake. Something else: Do you think Seamus Lambston and his wife were trying to sucker us?”

“Entirely possible.”

“Fair enough. But, Myles, hear me out without hushing me up, just this once. The last person who admits to seeing Ethel alive was her ex-husband Seamus. We know that was Thursday afternoon. Can someone ask him what she was wearing? My bet is that it was a
multicolored light wool caftan that she just about lived in when she was home. That caftan wasn't in her closet. Ethel never traveled with it. Myles, don't look at me like that. I know what I'm talking about. The point is, suppose Seamus—or someone else—killed Ethel while she was wearing that caftan and then changed her clothes.”

Neeve opened the door. Myles realized that she was expecting a derisive remark from him. He kept his tone impersonal. “Meaning . . .?”

“Meaning that
if
Ethel's clothes were changed after she died, there is no way that ex-husband is responsible for her death. You saw the way he and his wife were dressed. They have no more idea of fashion than I have of the inner workings of the space shuttle. On the other hand, there is a slimy bastard named Gordon Steuber who would instinctively have chosen something that came from his own company and dressed Ethel the way the outfit was sold.”

Just before she closed the door behind her, Neeve added, “You're always talking about a killer leaving his calling card, Commish.”

•   •   •

Peter Kennedy, attorney at law, was frequently asked whether he was related to
the
Kennedys. He did in fact bear a strong resemblance to the late President. He was a man in his early fifties with hair more rust than gray, a square, strong face and a rangy body. Early in his career he had been an assistant attorney general and formed a lasting friendship with Myles Kearny. At Myles's urgent phone call, Pete had canceled his eleven-o'clock appointment and agreed to meet Seamus and Ruth Lambston in his midtown office.

Now he listened to them incredulously as he observed their strained, weary faces. From time to time he interjected questions. “You are saying, Mr. Lambston, that you punched your former wife so violently that she fell backwards onto the floor, that she sprang up and grabbed the dagger she used as a letter opener, that in the struggle to wrench it from her hand her cheek was nicked.”

Seamus nodded. “Ethel could see I'd been almost ready to kill her.”

“Almost?”

“Almost,” Seamus said, his voice low and ashamed. “I mean, for one second if that punch had killed her, I'd have been glad. She made my life hell for more than twenty years. Then when she got up, I realized what could have happened. But she was scared. She told me to forget the alimony payments.”

“And then . . .”

“I got out. I went to the bar. Then I went home, got drunk and stayed drunk. I knew Ethel. It woulda been just like her to file an assault charge against me. She tried to have me locked up three different times when I was late with the alimony.” He laughed mirthlessly. “One of those times was the day Jeannie was born.”

Pete continued his questioning and skillfully extracted the fact that Seamus had been afraid of Ethel's signing a complaint; sure that when she had time to think about it she'd demand the alimony; foolish enough to tell Ruth that Ethel had said it was all right to quit the payments; terrified when Ruth demanded he put it in writing to Ethel.

“And then you inadvertently left both the check and the letter in the mailbox and went back hoping to retrieve them?”

Seamus twisted his hands in his lap. To his own ears he sounded like a bumbling fool. Which was exactly what he was. And there was more. The threats. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to tell about them yet.

“You never saw or spoke to your former wife, Ethel Lambston, after Thursday, March thirtieth.”

“No. I did not.”

He hasn't told me everything, Pete thought, but it's enough for a start. He watched as Seamus Lambston leaned back on the maroon leather couch. He was beginning to relax. Soon he'd unwind enough to put everything on the table. Too much probing would be a mistake. Pete turned to Ruth Lambston. She was sitting primly next to her husband, her eyes wary. Pete realized that Ruth was becoming frightened at her husband's revelations.

“Is it possible for someone to charge Seamus with assault or whatever it is for punching Ethel?” she asked.

“Ethel Lambston's not alive to press a charge,” Pete replied. Technically the police could file. “Mrs. Lambston, I think I'm a pretty good judge of character. You were the one who persuaded your husband to speak to Commissioner”—he corrected himself—“
former
Commissioner Kearny. I think you were right to know you needed help at this time. But the only way I can help you is if you tell me the truth. There is something that you are weighing and measuring, and I think I need to know what it is.”

As her husband and this impressive-looking lawyer stared at her, Ruth said. “I believe I threw away the murder weapon.”

By the time they left an hour later, Seamus having agreed to offer to take a lie-detector test, Pete Kennedy was no longer sure of his instincts. At the very end of the session, Seamus admitted that he had hired some wet-brained goon who hung around his pub to threaten Ethel. Either he's only stupid and scared or he's playing a pretty shrewd hand, Pete decided, and made a mental note to let Myles Kearny know that not all the clients Myles sent him were his cup of tea.

The news of Gordon Steuber's arrest crashed like a tidal wave through the fashion center. Phone lines buzzed: “No, it isn't the illegal factories. Everybody does that. It's drugs.” Then the big question: “Why? He makes millions. So he got a slap on the wrist for the sweatshops. So they're investigating him for income-tax evasion. A good team of lawyers could stall that for years. But drugs!” After an hour the black humor started. “Don't get Neeve Kearny mad at you. You'll trade your wristwatch for steel bracelets.”

Anthony della Salva, surrounded by fluttering assistants, was working on the final details of the fashion show for his fall line, which was to be held the following week. It was an eminently satisfying collection. The new kid he'd hired fresh out of the Fashion Institute of Technology was a genius. “You're another Anthony della Salva,” he told Roget, beaming. It was Sal's highest praise.

Roget, thin-faced, lank-haired, small-bodied, muttered under his breath, “Or a future Mainbocher.” But he returned Sal's beatific smile.

Within two years he was sure he'd have the backing to open his own place. He'd fought tooth and nail with Sal about his use of miniatures of the Pacific Reef design as accessories in the new collection, scarves and pocket handkerchiefs and belts in the brilliant tropical shades and intricate patterns that caught the magic and mystery of the aquatic world.

“I don't want it,” Sal had said flatly.

“It's still the best thing you've ever done. It's your trademark.” When the collection was complete, Sal admitted that Roget was right.

It was three-thirty when Sal heard the news about Gordon Steuber. And the jokes. He immediately phoned Myles. “Did you know this was coming?”

“No,” Myles said, his voice testy. “I'm not on the ear for everything that's happening at One Police Plaza.” Sal's worried tone flamed the abiding sense of oncoming disaster that had haunted him all day.

“Then maybe you should be,” Sal retorted. “Listen, Myles, we've all known that Steuber has mob connections. It's one thing for Neeve to blow the whistle on him because of workers without green cards. It's a hell of another proposition when she's the indirect cause of a hundred-million-dollar drug bust.”

“Hundred million. I hadn't heard that figure.”

“Then turn on the radio. My secretary just heard it. The point is, maybe you should think about hiring a bodyguard for Neeve.
Take care of her
! I know she's your kid, but I claim a vested interest.”

“You have a vested interest. I'll talk to the guys downtown and think about it. I just tried to call Neeve. She'd already left for Seventh Avenue. This is a buying day. Is she stopping in to see you?”

“She usually winds up here. And she knows I want her to preview the new line. She'll love it.”

“Tell her to call me as soon as you see her. Tell her I'll wait for the call.”

“Will do.”

Myles started to say goodbye, then had a sudden thought. “How's the hand, Sal?”

“Not bad. Teaches me not to be so clumsy. Much more important, I feel crummy about ruining the book.”

“Quit worrying. It's drying out. Neeve has a new beau, a publisher. He's going to take it to a restorer.”

“No way. That's my problem. I'll send someone up for it.”

Myles laughed. “Sal, you may be a good designer, but I think Jack Campbell is the right one for this job.”

“Myles, I insist.”

“See you, Sal.”

•   •   •

At two o'clock, Seamus and Ruth Lambston returned to Peter Kennedy's law office for polygraph tests. Pete had explained to them, “If we're willing to stipulate that the police polygraph can be used in the event you come to trial, I think I can talk them into not pressing assault or tampering-with-evidence charges.”