Exceptional Clearance Read online

  A mixture of sawdust and mica flakes covered the bleached wooden floors; waiters pushed through the crowd, offering silver trays filled with assorted canapés. Three bartenders worked the bar.

  Michael Worthington, who played a supporting role in the movie, was sitting comfortably on one of the banquettes in the bar, joking with the costume designer and the sound mixer. He looked at his watch: 9:26 P.M. The party had started at eight. The potbellied sound mixer looked at Worthington and asked, “Where the hell is Jessica?”

  Worthington smoothed down his tie and smiled. “Jessica is being fashionably late, as usual.”

  The costume designer, a heavily made-up woman on the late side of forty, wearing a black jumpsuit with large silk lapels and opera-length pearls, sipped her drink and said, “The way the media is playing up her involvement in that dreadful murder, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it didn’t turn into a box-office bonanza for us.”

  Worthington turned, fixed the costume designer with his powerful stare, and said, “That’s not very likely. We’ve just finished shooting. The movie won’t be released for almost a year or more. The police will have solved it by then.”

  Sipping bourbon from a shot glass, the sound mixer said, “I wonder who dear Jessica is sleeping with these days?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Worthington said, selecting a stuffed shrimp from the tray presented by a waiter.

  The costume designer lowered her gaze into her glass and said in an undertone, “I hear she’s into girls, these days.”

  The sound mixer leaned closer to Worthington. “Did you see the body?”

  Worthington was about to reply when he saw Jessica Merrill gliding into the crowd like royalty on a goodwill visit. She was wearing a floor-length sable coat over a stunningly simple white silk dress.

  Worthington watched expressionlessly as she pulled off gauntlet gloves, slipped out of her coat, and dropped both casually on a banquette.

  Worthington smiled and waved. He didn’t bother to get up and offer her a kiss.

  “Who are the grim types with her?” asked the costume designer in a whisper.

  Worthington answered her in a normal tone of voice. “Detectives. The police department does not want anything to happen to our leading lady.”

  “Well, that makes good sense. I mean, just look at all the publicity,” the sound mixer said. “The script girl isn’t here because she’s afraid to leave her hotel room.”

  Merrill’s arrival was the signal for the party to move into high gear.

  Worthington moved gracefully through the densely crowded rooms, carefully taking time to talk, if only briefly, with everybody from the key grip to the gaffers. People in the business liked him because he didn’t ignore the foot soldiers and just hang out with the brass. When he reached the end of the bar he walked over to Jessica and, caressing her face, whispered, “I’m glad you took my advice and got some rest. You look ten years younger than you did this afternoon.” He walked off, leaving her smiling happily.

  He had made his way into the restaurant when a slender hand clutched his shoulder, and a young woman kissed him on the cheek. “You were wonderful in the dailies, Michael.”

  Laura Steward was a bit player who was in only a few scenes and had precious few lines. Staring thirty in the face, tall, quite beautiful, and a skilled manipulator since childhood, she was the unlikely protégée of Jessica Merrill.

  He had noticed her earlier, networking the crowd, attempting to turn acquaintances she had made during the filming into real friendships. “Hi,” he said. “I saw all of the dailies, and I can tell you that the camera likes you. But you’re afraid of it. You’ve got to learn to make love to it and ignore it at the same time.”

  “Any advice?” she asked respectfully.

  Worthington gestured her to come close and whispered, “Try learning how to become another person. That’s what acting comes down to.”

  Shortly before ten, one of the regulars came into an all-night delicatessen on Second Avenue. The counterman greeted him, “You’re late tonight. How ya doing?”

  “Good, Morris. And how are you?”

  “How should I be? The lousy landlord just raised our rent. We need that like a lokh in kup. And how’s the missus?”

  “She’s wonderful,” he said, adding, “Tonight we’ll have—”

  “I know, I know,” Morris Goldberg interrupted, waving his hands and smiling broadly. “You want the usual—two corned beefs on rye, one very, very lean, and two cream sodas, to go.”

  Morris’s customer lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of his Tudor City co-op, an enclave of Tudor-style buildings hidden on an expensive promontory between First and Second avenues, overlooking the United Nations.

  Going into the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door and the light came on to reveal shelves filled with rows of brown bags identical to the one he was holding. Reaching inside, he pulled out the bag on the extreme right of the first rank, and carefully rearranged the other ranks until all the bags were in new positions. Stretching his arm inside, to the back of the first shelf, he inserted the new bag containing two corned beefs on rye and two cream sodas into its proper place in the last rank.

  Pushing the door closed, he dropped the grease-stained bag containing two stale corned beefs on rye and two cream sodas into the plastic garbage can under the sink, and walked into his bedroom, where he undressed and meticulously put his clothes away.

  Naked, he padded into the bathroom, where he showered and shaved. After toweling himself dry, he slathered on a heavy dose of after-shave and walked back into his bedroom, where he picked up the TV remote from the night table. He went to the window, and from there he flicked on the television. Looking out, he saw a reflection of the TV screen in the glass. The composite sketch was being shown on the news, while a voice-over told the viewers to call the confidential police telephone number at the bottom of the screen if they recognized the killer. He laughed and tossed the remote on his bed as he left the room.

  He walked through the living room and entered a room done in pastel colors with a soft pink rug, Roman shades, and a double-wedding-ring quilt on the bed. In the middle of the room was a prie-dieu. Kneeling on it was a five-foot inflated doll dressed in a nun’s habit. New York City has something for everyone, for every taste and the most desperate needs.

  THIRTEEN

  Thursday did not begin well for Vinda. He had been jolted awake during the night after dreaming of a coffin draped in a blanket of lilies—and Adriene Agueda, dressed in skimpy underwear, standing over the coffin, reading a eulogy. Why did I bring her into the case? he asked himself in his dream.

  He tried to get back to sleep, but couldn’t. When the alarm went off at eight, he slid out of bed, showered, and dressed.

  Going into the kitchen to make himself a cup of instant coffee, he opened the refrigerator and saw the stack of throwaway aluminum containers stacked in the back of the box. They held food left over from Jean’s mourning feast. Stuff must be really ripe by now, he thought. He cleaned all of the stuff out of the refrigerator and took it outside to the hallway incinerator, where he tossed all of it into the garbage chute in a plastic bag. Another gesture of letting go.

  Arriving at the squad shortly before nine, he found Adriene Agueda and Joan Hagstrom sitting together behind one of the two desks that had been hastily ordered from the quartermaster. They were going through the case folder. Agueda looked up, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Lou.”

  “Welcome aboard,” he said, going behind his desk and picking up the latest department orders. Vinda gave a smile of satisfaction when he read that Detective Stanley Gotlieb had been transferred from Manhattan’s First Detective Squad to Brooklyn’s Six-seven Detective Squad, otherwise known as the Land of Oz, Rastafarians, and homicides. Department justice, he mused, sure, swift, and arbitrary. The next time Gotlieb receives a tip on a homicide, he’ll pass it up the chain of command. He had just finished reading the orders when Marsella
and Moose arrived, carrying containers of coffee in soggy bags.

  Marsella looked at the women and said, “Good morning, ladies.” He slid out of his coat, tossed it on the rack, squeezed in behind the desk next to Hagstrom, and said, “Cramped quarters, hmm?” Resting his leg against hers, he asked, “Have you read the Fives?”

  “Most of them,” Hagstrom said, picking up her tea and discreetly eyeing her new partner over the rim of the container. Vinda made the introductions and picked up his copy of the case folder. He would let them discuss the case among themselves, allow the natural bonding process to work. He went down the list of names of the men who had been inside Rue St. Jacques when the first RMP arrived. A jackhammer digging up the street broke his concentration; he looked out the window at the up-thrust skeleton of a building rising out of Park Row. It hadn’t been there two days ago. He looked back at his team. Marsella was giving Hagstrom his undivided attention. She was just his type, too. Tall, with lustrous brown hair, eyebrows that formed perfect arches, and a great body. Sultry black eyes lurked inside a beautiful face.

  Stepping over to Agueda, Vinda handed her a list of names and ordered her, “Do a background check on these men. After you do that, scoot over to CCRB and start checking out civilian complaints against cops.” She took the list from him, and their eyes met briefly.

  Vinda thought about Sister Mary Margaret’s point about vampires not killing on Saturdays. The first homicide went down on a Monday, the second on a Tuesday, the third on a Sunday, and the fourth on Monday afternoon. He’s skipped Saturday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. So what did that mean? He threw his hands up in frustration. “I want you and Tony to start with the Department of Mental Health.”

  “What about checking out the Corporation Counsel for lawsuits against cops?” Moose asked, tugging his tie loose.

  “Later, if we have to. When plaintiffs bring an action against the Job they almost always file a civilian complaint against the cops involved as a matter of course. Things might go faster if we start with CCRB and Mental Health,” Vinda said.

  “Makes sense,” Marsella said, smiling at Hagstrom.

  Vinda asked the two male detectives, “Have either of you gone back to interview our first victim’s mother?”

  “Haven’t had time, Lou,” Marsella replied.

  “I’m going to Brooklyn to check out the two crime scenes,” Vinda said. “I’ll stop by her house and speak to her.”

  It was almost ten when the four detectives got up to leave the office. Agueda stopped at the door, looked back at the Whip, and asked, “Did you get the application I sent you in the department mail?”

  “I keep telling you, I’m Portuguese, not Spanish.”

  She gave him a small smile but closed the door with a bit more force than was required. Watching her through the glass wall as she walked down the hall, he remembered how easily her body once moved under a clinging dress, and saw that she had put on a little weight since the old days. But it somehow looked good on her.

  A few minutes later, Special Investigation’s lead clerical walked in and tossed a report on Vinda’s desk, saying, “Hot off the press, Lou. A new procedure for clearances.”

  Vinda picked up the report and saw that it was an amendment to the Administrative Guide adding another method of closing cases. The new subdivision, titled Exceptional Clearance, stated that a case might be closed when the identity and exact location of the offender were known, and there was enough information to support an arrest and prosecution, but for some reason beyond police control, the offender could not be arrested.

  Vinda tossed the blue pages into the file basket, thinking of his killer, wondering when he would kill again.

  Winds howled out of the north down Madison Avenue’s canyons, sweeping up trash and whirling it along streets and gutters. A stylish older woman wearing a mink jacket had her skirt lifted up by a sharp, sudden gust. A taxi driver saw and shouted, “Yo, babe, great bod.”

  Vinda waited on the northwest corner of Madison and Fifty-third. His breath frosted the air as he stamped his feet against the biting cold and complained to himself, Another of the Job’s paranoid orders: go, and do, and then forget what you didn’t do. A hunched-over wagonmaster pushing his caravan of eight shopping carts caught his attention. Each of the carts was bound to the other by S-links, and each one brimmed with the homeless man’s worldly possessions: scavenged deposit bottles, tattered clothes overflowing from tall bags, an aluminum folding chair, slabs of cardboard tied together. A rug rested across the tops of four carts, secured through the push-handles. Vinda glanced around him at the ski-slope sides of the Continental Illinois Center, intrigued at how the pleated glass sloped inward to form a rectangular prism. He looked back just in time to see the wagonmaster maneuvering his column of baskets into Fifty-fourth Street, and thought, The land of good and plenty—for some.

  Vinda’s eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, and as he watched the parade of beautiful women along Madison Avenue, he kept asking himself, Why Jean? Why? He checked the time: 11:37. His gaze moved across the street to the blue and white façade of the savings bank’s twenty-four-hour banking center, and he thought, Here I am, wasting valuable time, digging through piles of horseshit looking for a horse.

  A Rolls-Royce with darkened windows drew up in front of him, and a muscular bodyguard type emerged from the passenger seat. Mr. Biceps, who looked as though he existed on a diet of steroids, looked uncertainly at the Whip and asked, “Mr. Vinda?”

  “Yes.”

  Biceps pulled open the back door, inviting him to enter. Vinda peered into the luxurious interior and saw a man sitting in the corner, staring out the window. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored gray suit, soft white shirt, and black tie. Deep acne scars blemished his face, and black half-moons accented his deepset eyes. He had thinning brown hair streaked with gray, and his high forehead had a bandage on it, glaring white against his tanned skin.

  Vinda got in, and the door closed behind him with a thud. He found himself inside the surprisingly quiet interior, staring at the stranger huddled in the corner, ignoring him.

  “You have a name, pal?” Vinda asked impatiently.

  The stranger turned, scowling at Vinda. “Malcolm Webster is my name, Lieutenant.”

  Vinda’s voice softened. “My condolences.”

  “Adelaide was my only child.” He made a sigh that sounded more like a groan, and said, “I’ve been informed that you are in charge of the investigation.”

  “Yes,” Vinda answered cautiously, wanting to hear what was coming next, watching the car slowly pull out into the traffic headed uptown.

  Webster looked back out the window. “Do you know who murdered my daughter?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why was my daughter killed, Lieutenant?”

  Leventhal had set up this meeting, so Vinda reckoned that whatever Leventhal knew, Webster now knew too. The best way to handle this uncomfortable situation was to placate and stall until this guy got to the bottom line, Vinda thought. He said, “We believe your daughter was the random victim of a serial killer.”

  Webster said nothing; he kept staring out the window, his face deliberately turned away.

  Vinda had the strange sensation of riding through Manhattan’s harsh, discordant noises in a soundproof compartment, and he thought of the homeless man struggling with his train of shopping carts through the heavy, dirty traffic toward his next oasis of garbage cans, where he would scavenge for his daily bread.

  Webster turned to look at Vinda. “As soon as you know his name, I want you to tell me. And I want this done before any arrest is made.”

  “Knowing who it is and proving it are two different things, Mr. Webster.”

  “Proving? You don’t have to prove anything, Lieutenant. The man who murdered my daughter is not going to get off with any insanity plea.”

  You get enough money and power, Vinda thought, and you think you’re God. “I have to operate within the framework of the
law, Mr. Webster. It’s not a cop’s function to determine guilt, innocence, or degree of culpability.”

  Webster gave him a hard look. “I’ll determine culpability and degree of diminished capacity; you just provide me with his name.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  Webster’s eyes widened in anger. “Can’t?”

  “You got that right.”

  “Do you know what it took for me to get you here this morning?”

  “Probably a telephone call.”

  “And what does that tell you?”

  “That you know what buttons to push.”

  Webster relaxed back against the soft leather seat, his eyes fixed upward. “I won’t bore you with threats about what I could or could not do to affect your career …”

  Vinda thrust out a silencing palm. “I’ve been dealing with men like you ever since I came on the Job. You believe you’re a law unto yourself, but I’m here to tell you, you’re not. I know from bitter experience that when the brown stuff hits the fan, your kind runs for the foxholes, leaving the guys on the bottom of the heap to take the fall.”

  “Your cynicism is refreshing, Lieutenant. But I wonder how you would feel if it was your Jean who was murdered in Sutton Place Park instead of my daughter?”

  Vinda tried to keep the surprise from showing on his face. “I’d probably feel the same way you do,” he answered, wondering what else Webster knew about his private life.

  “I’m sure you would.” A consoling tone crept into his voice when he added, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  Vinda nodded in acknowledgment and rapped on the partition between the front and back seats, motioning the chauffeur to pull over to the curb. The bodyguard looked up into the rear-view mirror, trying to catch Webster’s eye. Webster nodded his assent, the bodyguard said something to the driver, and the limousine glided to the curb. Vinda pushed open the door; city sounds and cold rushed into the warmth.