The Morning Show Murders (1) (23 page)

At a little after five, while I was on the phone haggling with the body shop that Kiki had chosen to repair the Volvo, Cassandra opened my office door and marched in. She stood at my desk, shifting from one foot to the other until I'd cradled the receiver.

"Two people downstairs to see you," she said.

"Don't suppose you caught any names," I said.

"Did my job description change without you telling me, Billy?" she asked. "If people are going to be constantly dropping in on you, maybe you'd better hire a receptionist to handle the flow."

"I'll take that as a no on the names," I said.

"They're from InterTec Security," she said, pouting now.

"Was one of them the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?"

"No. But the guy's kind of hot."

"Send them up anyway," I said.

It wasn't easy to climb the stairs noiselessly, but the two security agents appeared at my office door as if by magic. They entered moving casually and quietly, surveying the room and me with admirable nonchalance before introducing themselves.

Bettina Noor was an attractive, diminutive East Indian woman
who, even in a beautifully tailored business suit of charcoal gray, looked young enough to be in high school. Straight black hair cut just above shoulder length. Dark eyes. No makeup. Carrying a black leather purse that, I presumed, contained a gun and a cellular phone, at the very least.

Her partner, A.W. Johansen, was in his mid- to late twenties, with the tan face and curly blond hair of a surfer. He was two or three inches taller than me and a pound or two lighter. Well, maybe five pounds. Okay, fifteen, but that's it. He was wearing a rumpled dark-blue blazer, khaki slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck, no tie. His blazer bulged near his right hip.

Ms. Noor quickly assumed the lead, explaining in a fast singsong patter that they would be accompanying me in twelve-hour shifts. "I understand from Ms. Snell that you are to be at the WBC building at six a.m. on Monday."

Ms. Snell, an InterTec employee, had called a few hours before with about a hundred and fifty questions, all of which I had dutifully answered.

"She said that you travel by chauffeur?"

"Usually," I said. "But my car's in the shop. And my chauffeur prefers to think of himself as a driver."

"I will remember the distinction," she said. "I assume you leave for work at approximately twenty minutes to the hour?" I nodded. "Fine. On Monday I shall arrive here at five-forty a.m. to relieve A.W. I will remain on duty until five-forty p.m., staying as unobtrusive as my duty will allow. At that time, A.W. will take over. That will be our weekday schedule."

"Sounds excellent," I said.

"What about the weekend, tomorrow and Sunday?" she asked. "Shall we, for the sake of simplicity and continuity, maintain that same schedule?"

"That'd be between you and A.W.," I said. "I'll be lolling about in bed until at least eight a.m. tomorrow morning."

"Same schedule's fine with me, Betts," A.W. Johansen said.

"Excellent," she said, consulting the large round watch on her slender wrist. "Then you will officially be on duty in exactly nineteen minutes."

I successfully avoided laughing, but I did smile.

Young Mr. Johansen grinned back at me and said, "I've got a bag downstairs in my car. I'm not sure what kind of extra sleeping setup you've got, but I don't need much."

"There's a guest room you can use," I said.

"Is it near enough to your bedroom for A.W. to maintain constant surveillance?" Bettina Noor asked.

"Right across the hall," I said.

She nodded. "You are unmarried. If there is someone else who will have access to your bedroom, now would be the time to notify A.W."

"I doubt that will pose a problem," I said.

"We can't be too careful," she said. "You told Ms. Snell that the building had been compromised last week by a man disguised as a policeman. Someone will be here within the hour to change the locks on the doors and to readjust the alarm system. Please notify the lady downstairs."

"Her name's Cassandra," I said. "I'll talk to her. I assume your alarm guy will let me pick my own key code."

"Of course. And as for the incident in this office, I would like to see the napkin with the perpetrator's warning."

I still had the napkin, folded, in my out basket. Ms. Noor studied it for a while, then passed it to her partner, who eventually handed it back to me.

"I think we can assume he is a better assassin than he is an artist," Ms. Noor said. "In any case, I shall be here tomorrow at five-forty a.m."

"I'll be up and waiting to let you in," Mr. Johansen said.

"Have some dinner before you leave," I said to Ms. Noor. "Consider meals a perk."

"I appreciate the offer," she replied. "But I have assayed your menu on your website and find it lacking in nutrition and health. In fact, I consider your food long-term suicide. Good evening, Mr. Blessing."

Both Mr. Johansen and I watched her go.

"Wow, that is one crazy party girl," I said.

"Bettina is a vegan," he said.

"She seems a little uptight, even for that," I said.

"She's kinda by-the-book," he said. "But she's also the best agent I've ever worked with."

"Good to know." I liked this A.W. Johansen.

"About that dinner offer ..." he said. "I'm definitely not a vegan. In fact, I'm a big fan of yours, Chef Blessing."

"Thanks," I said. "And 'Billy' works for me. Do I call you A.W.?"

"Everybody does."

"What do the initials stand for?"

He hesitated. His tan face reddened and he half mumbled, "Andy Warhol."

"Come again?"

"My dad was Piet Johansen, the silk-screen artist. Mom used to be an actress. Vera Sweet's her real name. She was billed as Very Sweet in a couple of Warhol movies. She and Dad met at The Factory back in the sixties. Warhol was my godfather, but I only met him once, when I was seven. This was just before my dad passed away."

"Your mom still with us?"

"Very much so. She and my stepfather left the city a while ago. They run a bed-and-breakfast on the West Coast. In Topanga Canyon, kind of near L.A. Both doing great."

"And you were just out there on a visit."

He blinked. "How ...?"

"Elementary, my dear A.W. The suntan."

He grinned again, showing perfect, very white teeth.

"Why don't you get your bag," I said, "and I'll show you the spare room. Then we'll see about getting you dinner."

"Great," he said. "I'm starving. I had lunch with Bettina at one of her faves. Hummus and wheatgrass soup really doesn't do it for me."

"I think I saw a twenty-two-ounce bone-in rib eye ready for grilling," I said.

I could've sworn he did one of those zip out and back moves like Wile E. Coyote. I wouldn't have been surprised to find
ACME
stenciled on his bag.

I showed him the spare room, pointed out the bathroom, and left him to unpack while I went down to give Cassandra a heads-up about the arriving locksmith and spend a few kitchen minutes observing Chef Maurice and his merry band preparing for the evening.

Looking at the little man with the tobacco-stained gray beard, the porcupine gray hair, and the oily blue denim jumpsuit sitting on his personal folding stool while adjusting the Bistro's front door latch assembly, I finally understood the rationale behind the proverb "Love laughs at locksmiths."

At my urging, Cassandra managed to hustle the lock-fiddling leprechaun, his folding stool, and red toolbox decorated with the Rolling Stones' big lips to the rear exit just as the first wave of customers hit.

I welcomed the diners, congratulated them on their good taste in having chosen one of the finest restaurants in the city, and showed them to their tables. When Cassandra returned, I retreated to a deuce at the rear of the room where A.W. was studying the evening menu. He placed it on the table and informed me that he would be passing on the rib steak in favor of the more imaginative squab with oysters, a combination I'd blithely stolen from one of the great chefs, Jasper White, though I did create my own sauce.

I complimented him on his choice, took one more look at the tables being filled, and, satisfied that all was well, liberated a bottle
of Grand Cru Beaujolais and a wineglass from the bar and retreated to my office intending to at least glance at the morning show's temporary schedule that Kiki had prepared. But I couldn't focus on it. I felt ... what? Vaguely depressed? Frustrated? Annoyed with myself? Why?

I should have been at peace with the world. If Trina Lomax was connected to Felix, she would have informed him by now that I was definitely off his case. And even if that didn't work, I had people with guns protecting me. Assuming the commander had talked to the cops as he'd promised, that should have at least given Solomon something to think about other than me. These were good, positive things. So why was I feeling so blah?

I took a sip of the Beaujolais. Then another. My stomach growled, but I wasn't quite ready for dinner. I picked up the morning-show schedule and put it down again. It was the damned vagueness of it all that was getting me down.

I had no real basis for thinking that Trina was connected to Felix. By her own admission, she'd made him a special project, which explained why she'd run his name through MonitorMan Marvin's super-search program. It also explained why she knew so much more about some of Felix's murders--the severed head, for example, and the full, grisly story of the Colombian cartel boss's death--than had been in the news reports. She could have uncovered facts that other less-aggressive reporters would have missed.

But there was something ... and I suddenly realized what it was that had bothered me at that meeting in Gretchen's office. When Trina was talking about Felix, she seemed to be almost a different person. Gone was the unsympathetic professional who treated Arnie Epps like a lackey and used the murder of a coworker as a promotional tool. She'd seemed obsessed. Passionate. Felix was definitely more to her than just an elusive story.

Then there was the whole Rudy Gallagher thing. The commander had explained Rudy's presence in Afghanistan, and even provided a motive for the murder of the security guard Deacon Hall. But the old man was assuming that Touchstone CEO Carl Kelstoe had sent Felix to New York to do a mop-up.

That didn't seem to make sense. If Felix's goal had been to recover Kelstoe's recorded phone message and kill whoever might possess it,
wouldn't the commander have been number one on the hit list? He'd made the deal with Hall. Rudy was just the transporter. And why Phil? All he did was inadvertently videotape the information transfer.

Why had Rudy been killed? Regardless of what he'd told the commander, he'd been in possession of the recording. Since he'd said to Melody Moon that he was coming into money, it was safe to assume he was planning on selling it. To whom, if not to Kelstoe?

Maybe paying for a hit was cheaper than paying Rudy. Or Kelstoe wanted to make sure that Rudy wouldn't be coming back at him with copies for future bargaining. Or, Rudy being Rudy, maybe he just pissed Kelstoe off. In that case, was it possible that Kelstoe, not Felix, had killed him? No. Kelstoe might have beaten Rudy to death, but I couldn't see him using poison.

But I also didn't see why a smart guy like Kelstoe would have been hanging around town on the night that his hit man was going to kill Rudy. He had to assume that the commander could link him to the murder. Except that the commander hadn't ... until today. And why was that?

Well, the old man's consigliere Marvin had only recently told him about Felix. Maybe, in spite of what he'd said to the contrary, the commander had thought I'd killed Rudy. A lot of people did. Was that the point of using a Bistro meal to kill Rudy? To send the cops toward me and away from Kelstoe?

So many questions.

I opened the drawer to my left and got out Rudy's little black book to see if it might provide any answers.

Judging by a date scribbled on the third entry, he'd started this particular record of his horndog adventures just three years before. Of its two hundred pages, one hundred and eighty were filled with scribbled entries. Two to a page. Approximately one hundred and twenty women a year. Talk about your multitasker.

Gretchen Di Voss's "G.D.V." entry was near the end. My guess was it had been added approximately four months ago. That's about when Gretch, to use her term, became his "back-door romance."

There were thirty-six entries after Gretchen's. At the rate the Love Shepherd had been gathering his flock, as many as twenty-five or twenty-six little lambs could have made it into the book before the Gretch-Gallagher relationship had blossomed into what she'd
assumed to be its monogamous affianced stage. That left ten or so post-fiancee flings.

I scanned those initials. M.M., Melody Moon, was the second to last, right after S.Y., H.H. and B.I. But unlike the other entries, Melody's had no ratings. Instead, Rudy had drawn a dark line through that section of the page. Indicating what? That he hadn't slept with her? He had. Melody wouldn't have lied about that. That she hadn't been worth rating? Doubtful, since he had continued to court her and was considering marrying her. Maybe he'd felt she was too special to rate? More special than Gretchen?

In that case, why was there one entry after Melody's?

I gave it another look and realized it wasn't an entry at all. It was a message from Rudy to himself:
Call C.K. after nine
. Not Clark Kent, I assumed. Nor Craig Kilborn, or any other C.K. except the most obvious one. Two telephone numbers were listed.

I flipped back through the book but could find only ratings. That he'd started using the pages for notes was probably another indication that he'd convinced himself Melody was the One.

I picked up the phone and dialed the first of C.W.'s numbers: 212-744-1600. Even before I'd hit the final "0," I knew who'd be answering.

"This is the Hotel Carlyle. Good evening."