It was also meaningful that the chief wasn’t here. Trouble at the top? The kind of pressure the press and pols were applying could cause all sorts of dissent and ruptured relationships. But da Vinci had no doubt that the chief was, or would be, fully informed at some point by the commissioner. Timing could be everything.
Heavy, brooding, and intense, the commissioner was in civilian clothes, a chalk-stripe gray suit, white shirt, and blue silk tie. In his younger days, his knowing, solemn expression had spooked many a tough suspect into deciding to cooperate with the law. Whether you were a creep or a cop, gravitas was gravitas. He sat at ease and gazed balefully as da Vinci walked around to sit behind the desk.
“Adelaide Starr,” the commissioner said. “She’s getting to be a hell of a problem, Andy.”
The commissioner was one of the few people who called Deputy Chief Andrew Da Vinci Andy. Da Vinci didn’t correct him. “I take it we both saw her performance last night on the Matt Black show, sir.”
The commissioner nodded.
Da Vinci cleared his throat. “We’re still deliberating on what to do about it,” he said.
The commissioner raised his eyebrows. “We?”
“Captain Beam and his team, and myself, sir.”
“What are the ideas offered?”
Shit! Da Vinci hadn’t yet talked to Beam about Adelaide Starr’s latest stunt. “Obviously it’s a play for publicity on her part, sir. She thinks by casting the city as elitist, even un-American, she’s placed herself in the role of hero. Or heroine.”
“I know you’re sitting down, but I hear tap dancing, Andy.”
“We’ve decided we can’t possibly declare a moratorium on jury duty, sir. It would shut down the legal system. The problems it would cause are—”
“Unacceptable,” the commissioner finished for da Vinci. “So what’s your plan?”
“Still formative, sir.”
“You don’t have a plan?”
“Yet.”
“You’ve been outwitted by a clever young woman.”
“So far.” Da Vinci felt himself beginning to perspire.
The commissioner looked cool as ice cream. “Here’s what I want you to do, Andy. Issue a statement for the media, saying you’re aware of Adelaide Starr’s position and you’re taking it under advisement. But make it clear that as of now there are no plans to declare a moratorium on juries and, subsequently, trials by jury. That, you will point out, would be disastrous for the city, and a boon for criminals. It would be unfair to the very people Adelaide Starr is trying to protect. Lean on that final point: it would be unfair to all the honest New York citizens who would be the victims of emboldened criminals.”
Da Vinci smiled. “That makes good sense, sir.” And takes the load off me. “And it buys us time.”
The commissioner returned the smile and rose from his chair. “Tap dance, Andy. You’re good at it, and I mean that as a compliment.”
“Yes, sir. Er, thank you.”
“You need to dance more in public, Andy, if you get my meaning. This killer’s becoming too much of a hero. Or an anti-hero. You ever go to movies, Andy?”
“Sometimes. I’m awfully busy these days.”
“Anti-heroes are very popular. People transfer that to real life. Count the newspaper and TV features favorable to the police, and those favorable to the Justice Killer, and I don’t have to tell you who wins.”
“No, sir.”
The commissioner shook his head. “They don’t see the blood.”
The phone on da Vinci’s desk began to buzz.
“Go ahead and answer,” the commissioner said. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about before I go, regarding the progress of the investigation.”
“Yes, sir.” Da Vinci picked up the phone.
The commissioner seemed to sense bad news on the line. Bad news da Vinci would have no choice but to relate to him immediately, without having time to figure out how best to present it. Why did this call have to come in now and not five minutes later? Da Vinci silently asked himself that question over and over as he listened to one of his trusted lieutenants on the other end of the connection.
When he’d thanked the lieutenant and hung up, the commissioner said, “Trouble, Andy?”
“Carl Dudman was killed while getting into his limo in front of his apartment building. Apparently someone shot him from a passing car, using a silencer.”
The commissioner was very still, thinking. “Dudman…The real estate Dudman?”
“Yes, sir. He was also jury foreman in the Genelle Dixon Central Park slaying trial six years ago.”
“The defendant walked,” the commissioner said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin and recollecting. “Guilty bastard, too. We messed up with the evidence. Unlawful search, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir. Dudman’s security guard was nearby at the time of the shooting. He didn’t have time to react to the gunman, didn’t even see him, but when he realized Dudman was shot he helped him all the way into the limo then got in and instructed the driver to go like hell to the nearest hospital. Dudman was dead by the time they arrived.”
Da Vinci was getting more and more uneasy, with the commissioner standing there staring down at him.
“Something else, Andy?”
“Yes, sir. After the limo pulled away, we found a brown-tinted plastic pharmaceutical vial, the kind prescription medicine comes in. We think it was tossed from the car as it drove past and the shot was fired.”
“Tell me it has the names of the killer and his doctor on it,” the commissioner said.
“It was unlabeled, sir. And empty except for a rolled up slip of paper with a red letter J printed on it in felt tip pen.”
The commissioner stood quietly, and when he spoke it was calmly and softly. “The Justice Killer, Adelaide Starr, the media wolves, they’re all making goddamned fools of us, Andy.”
Without bothering to look at da Vinci or say goodbye, he turned slowly and left the office.
Da Vinci thought it had been nice of the commissioner to say us.
Beam double parked his Lincoln in front of Things Past, not bothering to put up the NYPD placard. He ignored the closed sign hanging in the shop window and pushed in through the door. Lucky it was unlocked, as Nola had said, or he might have punched out the glass with his shoulder, so eager was he to get inside the shop.
He didn’t know what to expect, but he saw that there was no one behind the counter. The shop was empty.
Damn it!
He was headed toward the back room when he noticed Nola. She was standing to his left and slightly behind him, staring at him with wide dark eyes.
“What is it?” Beam asked, moving toward her sideways so he wouldn’t knock anything breakable off the shelves. “What’s wrong?”
“That.” Nola’s gaze lowered to fix on something on one of the shelves, and she pointed.
Beam sidestepped around a mannequin wearing a fake fur jacket and twenties feathered hat, and saw where Nola was pointing.
On the shelf before her was a man’s ring. It drew Beam’s attention, as it had drawn Nola’s, because the shop’s jewelry, the good stuff, was all displayed in a glass case near the register to prevent shoplifting. A key, held by Nola, was needed to get into the case.
At first Beam didn’t understand the significance of the ring. Then, when he did, his blood went cold.
It was Harry Lima’s trademark ring. No mistaking it. Large, gold, gaudy, a dusting of diamonds in the shape of a dollar sign, flanked by rubies and Harry’s initials.
The ring Harry was wearing when he was buried.
45
The air was warm and reeked of fried onions. Seated in the diner down the street from Things Past, Beam said nothing until Nola had a cup of coffee and a glass of ice water in front of her. They were in a back booth near a door to the kitchen. They wouldn’t be overheard here by the dozen other customers at tables or seated at the counter.