Exceptional Clearance Read online

  NINE

  Linda Camatro’s body was propped on its knees, wedged into the space between the mirror and the upturned Queen Anne chair; except for her underpants and the tangled swimsuit around her leg, she was nude.

  Standing outside the fitting room, straddling the pool of blood, a crime-scene photographer aimed his camera in at the body. Detectives and Emergency Service search teams prowled the five floors of Rue St. Jacques in search of her killer.

  On the second floor, inside the designer dress department, John Vinda, his face reflecting his depression and fatigue, conferred with the chief of detectives, Marsella, and Moose Ryan. “How the hell is it possible for a woman to be murdered in a crowded store, and no one sees or hears anything?” Leventhal said, clenching his fists until the knuckles turned white.

  “According to the witnesses, Jessica Merrill was swanning around and everyone else was too busy gaping at her to see anything,” Vinda explained.

  “And where is this movie star?” Leventhal asked, adjusting his tie.

  “Over there, near the stockroom,” Marsella said. Vinda glanced over at her. She was standing between two racks of clothes, talking to a detective. Her face was animated, her hands constantly in motion. Five other witnesses were also being interviewed, including two saleswomen.

  “Who’s the guy?” Vinda asked Moose, looking at a vaguely familiar face.

  Moose, following the Whip’s line of sight, answered, “Michael Worthington, another actor. He was with Merrill.”

  Vinda asked Marsella, “Where’s the store manager?”

  “Downstairs, trying to calm down some of his customers,” the detective answered.

  “Go and tell him that I want all of today’s sales slips,” Vinda said.

  “Done,” Marsella answered, and walked off.

  Vinda went and stood inside the corridor of dressing rooms. Once again, no bloodstains led away from the scene. Leventhal came over to him and, as though reading the lieutenant’s mind, said, “Maybe he uses a towel to clean up before making his exit?”

  Vinda shook his head. “There’s too much blood; it’d take much too much time.” Looking in at the body, Vinda wondered what dreams Linda Camatro had for her own. He looked over at Moose. “Mosey around and see if there are any men with briefcases or knapsacks. Our doer must be carrying some kind of container around with him, using something to sop up that much blood.”

  Moose nodded and walked off.

  “Have you figured out the time sequence yet?” Leventhal asked in a quiet voice.

  “Merrill went into the fitting room at about twelve-thirty. She discovered the body and screamed. Salespeople ran over, security was called, all the doors and fire exits guarded, and nine-one-one called. The first RMP arrived on the scene at twelve-thirty-one.”

  “Could the perp have exited by one of the fire doors before security put men on them?” Leventhal wanted to know.

  “Don’t think so. All of the fire doors are alarmed, and none of the alarms went off and none were tampered with.”

  “Then he might still be inside the store,” Sam Staypress said.

  “That’s the reason for the interior search,” Vinda said.

  A nervous twitch made the C-of-D’s left eyelid flutter. “All the others were done in the streets.”

  “I believe Camatro was a target of opportunity. He must have seen a chance to kill and went for it. We’re dealing with somebody who thinks he can get away with anything.”

  “Which means …”

  “… he’s always ready to kill,” Vinda supplied. He asked Leventhal bluntly, “This case is now totally public. You still want me to run with it?”

  Leventhal’s face smoothed into the noncommittal mask of the Palace Guard when he said, “For better or worse, it’s your baby. Besides, nobody but us knows about the two Brooklyn homicides.”

  Vinda decided not to tell the chief of detectives about David Pollack. Moose returned, slightly out of breath from his climb up the stairs. “No knapsacks, but a few of the men on the first floor have attaché cases, and one of them is holding on to a stained flight bag as though it contained the family jewels.”

  “Stained with what?” asked the C-of-D.

  “Dunno,” Moose said. “Could be blood.”

  “Could be halvah, too,” Vinda rejoined.

  Moose bellied up to the Whip, his beady eyes tightening as the shadow passed over his face. “Want me to give those bags a toss?”

  Vinda brushed a hand through his thick black hair, fingering the duck’s tail in the rear, as he tried to remember the fine print of department Legal Bureau bulletins dealing with warrantless searches. The store entrance and fire exits were now guarded by policemen, effectively preventing the perp from escaping; there were no existent circumstances that demanded an immediate search in order to save a life or prevent the destruction of evidence. Since the perp was unable to escape, Vinda had ample time to apply to a court of competent jurisdiction for a warrant to search those attaché cases and that flight bag. The problem was he could not show reasonable cause to believe the murder weapon or evidence of crime was concealed inside any of them. He knew from long, bitter experience that courts did not issue warrants to conduct speculative random searches. He also knew that the fruits of a warrantless search would be inadmissible in court and the suspect set free. If he did order a search, and the doer was identified, he would be able to get him off the street for a while, perhaps save lives. And while the killer was in jail he could try to dig up admissible evidence to use against him. He looked first into Leventhal’s impassive face, and then at Moose. “Try to obtain their consent to search.”

  “Lou,” Moose pleaded, “none of those guys looks like a dummy; no way they’re gonna give me consent to search their property.”

  A sly glimmer sparkled in Vinda’s dark eyes. He looked at Moose and said, “Then you know what to do.”

  Moose winked at the Whip and walked over to the telephone on the floor supervisor’s desk. He dialed 911. When the emergency operator answered, he adopted a rough Hispanic accent and reported that a bomb had been secreted inside a man’s attaché case—and that this man was at that very moment inside the Rue St. Jacques on East Fifty-seventh Street. He gave a vague description of the anonymous man, and added that the bomb was set to go off in eleven minutes. He hung up and turned up the volume of the miniaturized walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. When he heard the transmission, 10:33—Report of Explosive Device—he lowered the volume and made for the staircase.

  Jessica Merrill had emerald green eyes. As Vinda listened to her tell how she had discovered the body, he realized that this woman had a powerful erotic presence. Her stance, her head tilted to one side and her leg thrust jauntily out in front of her; her closely fitted suit unbuttoned to the cleavage, just enough to give a tantalizing peek at her breasts; her thick, round lips glowing deep cinnamon to complement her dark skin tone. Even the way she had casually tossed her sable coat over the dress rack reminded him of a reckless sexuality. But he also thought he detected an occasional tremor of insecurity in her voice.

  Looking at one of the search teams, and then to Vinda, she blurted, “It’s just like the movies, isn’t it?”

  Vinda brushed a hand across her sable coat. “Not really; this body is a real one.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve never seen anything so horrible. Who could do such a thing?”

  “A lot of people could do such a thing,” Vinda said, unsure of the sincerity of her revulsion. Her tone was right, and her face still retained a shadow of real fear, but there was something off-key about her. He could not help wondering to what degree she was playing a part now. “Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”

  A bitter smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Lieutenant, whenever I’m in public, people act funny. It’s a price you pay in a society that is hooked on celebrity.” She glanced at the chief of detectives, who had been staring at her in a totally unprofessional fashion.

  “Whe
n you were making your way to the dressing room, did you notice anyone leaving or standing nearby?” Leventhal asked, smiling at her.

  “No I didn’t,” she said flatly.

  Leventhal seemed to be aware that she was more comfortable talking to Vinda so he kept his mouth shut.

  Vinda questioned her for another twenty minutes or so. He thanked her for her help, and then he and the C-of-D walked off to interview the actor, Michael Worthington. As they were making their way between the racks of clothes, Leventhal leaned close to Vinda and said, “Did you catch that long blond hair? It almost reaches her ass.” He glanced furtively about and added, “I wonder if her sleeves match her cuffs?”

  “I suspect that’s something you’ll never know, boss,” Vinda said as they walked over to the actor.

  Michael Worthington had long ago become used to people looking at him with a puzzled “I know I’ve seen that guy somewhere” expression on their faces. Only in his last few films had he graduated from supporting to leading roles. He had a face that just missed being handsome, but its features were defined strongly enough to make him stand out a bit from the crowd. Piercing blue eyes, which seemed to glow from some inner light, often surprised people when he looked at them directly, as he did now at Vinda. Close up, the detective and his chief could see the network of fine lines in the corners of his eyes that, along with the silver-streaked black hair carefully swept back over his ears, hinted at his fifty-nine years. Vinda started to remember some of the films he had been in, always playing a supporting role with superb professionalism. In fact, Jean had particularly liked one of his earliest films, in which he had played a village priest in a rough frontier town.

  Worthington was standing in the tiny aisle between racks of clothes, his Burberry casually draped over his left shoulder.

  Vinda made the introductions.

  “What an awful thing to have happen,” Worthington said. “That poor woman and her family.”

  “Just a few questions,” Vinda said, admiring the actor’s brown turtleneck sweater and Harris tweed sport jacket, as well as noting his physical fitness and almost aristocratic bearing. “I understand from Jessica Merrill that you two were on your way to lunch when Miss Merrill decided to do some shopping.”

  Worthington smiled and admitted, “Jessica considers it a sin to pass a place like this without at least taking a peek inside.”

  “Where were you while she was looking at dresses?” Vinda asked.

  “Standing right here,” Worthington said, “being as patient as I always am when she cons me into shopping with her. It bores me to tears—but it makes her happy for some reason when I tag along. I generally stay in the background, amusing myself by watching people watching her.”

  “Did you notice anyone loitering in the fitting-room area?” Vinda asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Worthington answered.

  Vinda and Leventhal exchanged hopeful looks. “Tell me,” Vinda said.

  “A man was hanging around the dressing rooms. He wasn’t doing anything, or paying attention to what was going on inside the salon. He appeared to be waiting for someone to come out of one of the rooms.”

  “Describe him,” Vinda said.

  “A tall white man, middle to late fifties. Distinguished looking, with thinning gray hair. Well built. Green eyes. He was wearing a camel’s-hair sport coat, gray slacks, brown tassel loafers, and a light blue button-down shirt. I’m not certain, but I think he had a light brown overcoat over his right arm.”

  “You’re very observant,” Vinda said, looking at the actor with respect.

  “Lieutenant, an actor is a lot like a cop when it comes to seeing, really noticing people. We learn to study them, to use them as raw material for creating a part.”

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about this guy?” Vinda asked.

  Worthington put his coat on the top of a nearby dress rack. He folded his arms across his chest, his sober expression a reflection of his deep thought as he tried to remember more.

  While he waited, Vinda looked over at Jessica Merrill, who was halfheartedly examining a blue spangled dress. She finally dropped it on a chair and gazed sadly in the direction of the dressing room.

  “Yes,” Worthington said suddenly, as if agreeing with his own thoughts. “I remember thinking that was odd.” He looked at Vinda. “Here was this well-dressed man, and he was toting a dirty red knapsack around with him. It just did not go with the way he was dressed, it was … out of place.”

  A surge of excitement raced through Vinda. Mrs. Gail Phillips, one of the Sutton Place witnesses, had seen a man leaving the park stuffing a towel into a red knapsack. “I need you to work with one of my detectives to prepare a composite sketch of the man you saw.”

  “I don’t have much time. My wife is waiting for me at home.”

  “It won’t take much time,” Vinda said, motioning one of the detectives over, and telling him to get hold of an artist from the Crime Scene Unit and tell him to bring his composite sketchbook with him.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help, but I must call my wife. She’ll get nervous if I’m not home on time.”

  “Of course,” Vinda said, pointing to the telephone on the sales supervisor’s desk.

  While Worthington was talking on the phone, Jessica Merrill came over to Vinda and said, “Lieutenant, I’d appreciate it if you could manage to keep our names out of this tragedy. Neither of us wants this type of publicity. And, frankly, I’m scared. It’s dangerous enough being a public figure—but it really worries me that whoever did this might just have been looking for me.”

  Vinda tried to reassure her. “That’s not too likely. You came in here on impulse. Nobody knew you’d be here, so I can’t see you being the target. This thing was random, crazy. But don’t worry. We’ll do everything we can to keep your names out of it. We don’t want the press to know about you, any more than you do. Movie stars involved in a case generate a huge amount of publicity, and that is one thing we don’t need.”

  The police artist from the Crime Scene Unit showed up and reported to Vinda, who explained to Worthington that the artist was going to work with him on making the composite sketch. “Go someplace where it’s quiet,” he told them. Looking around, he suggested, “The stockroom should be okay.”

  “I’ll go too,” Jessica said. “I’d like to see how this is done.”

  “We don’t need you, Jessica. You go home. You’ve had the most awful experience. You must rest,” Worthington said firmly.

  “But I’d like to see how it’s done,” she insisted.

  Worthington looked directly at her and said in a stern tone, “Jessica, this is one set you’re not needed on. Go home!”

  She snapped her coat off the top of the rack, slid into it, picked up her two shopping bags, and demanded, “How do I get out of here without the press seeing me?”

  The chief of detectives stepped up to her and said, “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  Watching them stroll off toward the service elevator, Vinda absently picked up the sleeve of a dress, and thought, How does Worthington get away with talking to her like that? Are they an item? He glanced down at the pricetag on the sleeve and dropped it as if it were electrified. Fifty-five hundred dollars? he screamed inwardly, and picked up another, thirty-six hundred dollars, speculating about the women who bought them, and the men who paid for them. They certainly weren’t cops.

  Ten minutes later he wandered into the stockroom and watched Worthington work with the Crime Scene Unit artist. They were standing over a small desk, and Worthington was selecting plastic overlays of eyes, mouths, hairlines, noses, chins, ears, and foreheads to be put onto a blank face, forming a composite sketch of the man Worthington had seen near the dressing rooms at the time of the murder. Perhaps the killer, perhaps just a man with a red knapsack who was waiting for his wife. Whatever he was, the composite sketch of his face was about to be sent to every patrol precinct and detective squad in the city.

&nb
sp; Marsella poked his head inside and gestured for the Whip to come out. “I’ve got all the sales slips.”

  “I want every one of those people interviewed,” Vinda said.

  “Right,” Marsella acknowledged, adding, “David Pollack’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”

  Vinda went over to the floor supervisor’s desk and picked up the telephone. “Yes, David?”

  “The AP received an anonymous call stating that Jessica Merrill was almost murdered today in Rue St. Jacques.”

  “Shit!” Vinda hissed. “Any chance of squashing the story?”

  “Are you for real? It’s already been the subject of news bulletins on all the majors.”

  “Now the fun begins. With Jessica Merrill involved, we’re really going to be feeling the heat.”

  Pollack responded with sympathy. “Yeah. I know. But it gets worse. The AP also got a tip linking the Webster homicide to two other unspecified cases.”

  Vinda felt the first stab of a blinding headache as he put the receiver back.

  TEN

  A burly detective sat at his desk studying the case folder. The travel clock next to his dictionary said 7:26; it was only hours after Camatro and Webster had been murdered. The eleventh-floor squadroom of the Major Case Squad was empty except for the five detectives doing the night duty. Most of the overhead fluorescents had been switched off, bathing the room in a strange ballet of dancing shadows. The vertical blinds were open, revealing the incandescent sprawl of the city. A base radio that could communicate with detective units in the field was on top of a desk in the corner, while in another corner a television screen showed a local news anchorman’s trademark hair and gloriously capped teeth. He was telling the world about Jessica Merrill’s harrowing escape from death at the hands of the depraved killer who was terrorizing the city. “Fear is abroad in New York City tonight,” the anchorman said, as the composite sketch of the killer came onto the screen. Below the face, confidential police telephone numbers appeared, and the anchorman asked viewers to call if they recognized the man in the sketch. The next segment played up the announcement that department stores throughout the city were going to put on added security.