“You found what you wanted? Your snooping around produced something for you?” said Celestina.
I held out the button I’d taken from Simonova’s dead hand.
“You found that in here?” Mrs. Hutchison asked. “It’s from this jacket I’m wearing. My husband’s, of course.”
“I found it in Mrs. Simonova’s hand this morning,” I said.
“So he was there. Yes. I thought so.” Anger crossed her face. For a moment she was silent, staring at something on the desk. It was the brochure I had been looking at.
“This interested you?” She picked it up. “Why is that?” she said. “It’s just some of Lionel’s nonsense. He joins all these silly societies.” She took the brochure from the desk and tore it in four, tossed the pieces in the wastebasket. “That sad old man I’m married to, all he thinks about is death, and just because his little brother had some pain sixty years ago. Ridiculous. I don’t understand him anymore,” she said, almost to herself. Then she smiled brightly, arranged her yellow cap, and added, “Well, I guess we are all entitled to our beliefs.”
I didn’t answer her.
“I always say life is life, after all. Don’t you agree?” She let out a humorless little laugh.
I held out the button again. She shook her head.
“Keep it,” she said. “Perhaps it will lead you to something. Perhaps it will help you find Marianna’s killer.” She paused. “Ha ha, of course I’m joking. Can’t believe old Lionel would do that. But you, detective, isn’t that what you do? Find the killers?”
CHAPTER 26
V irgil Radcliff caught up with me as I was leaning on a railing across from the Armstrong overlooking Jackie Robinson Park, trying to catch my breath, get some air.
“Hey.” Virgil leaned next to me and lit up a cigarette.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Upstairs,” he said. “I got my car out back, and when I was pulling onto Edgecombe Avenue, I saw you. What’s going on?”
All the time I had been on the roof, then with Celestina Hutchison, he had been with Lily.
“I thought you had a bunch of fucking cases to work?” I said.
“I had to take a break. I’m going to be on all night,” said Virgil. He looked up. The snow had finally stopped; the temperature had dropped. “Jesus, it’s cold.”
I didn’t know if Lily had told him about Simonova’s letter, that the Russian had left her everything. I didn’t feel like sharing, not then.
“How do you think Lily is doing,” said Virgil.
“I don’t know. You?”
“I think she’ll be fine once the funeral is over. Tomorrow, it’ll be better,” he said and then I knew she hadn’t told him, not about the letter, and I wondered why.
“I have to go,” said Virgil. “You have my numbers if you need me, right? Listen, Artie, you should go the party with Lily. I’ll probably be working all night.”
Nice to have the boyfriend’s permission, I thought.
“If you drive, take it easy. Lot of black ice under the snow.”
“Right.” I knew he wanted something.
“Streets up here can be bad. Hills, inclines can deceive you. Weirdest damn thing happened on election night, you know? Just a few blocks south.”
“What’s that?”
“So, there was this van that was parked on that street, and some asshole left the hand brake off, and it just slid down the street, and around the corner.”
I didn’t say anything.
“There was nobody in it. Nobody. It was just this empty silver van.”
“So?”
“I think we caught most of the event on camera. Not usually a lot of cameras up around here, nobody bothered for a long time, but that night there were plenty. We think some film crew caught it-they were passing, filming on their way to 125th street, and they caught it.”
“I have to go.” I was going home to change for the party, to look good for Lily.
I looked at Radcliff. He’d mentioned the silver van casually, brought it up almost as an afterthought. But why? Did he know I’d been there? Was my red Caddy-you couldn’t miss it-on a piece of tape, caught by some passing film crew by chance on election night? I’d half forgotten the fucking thing, out of control, passing me like some crazy ghost van.
Did Radcliff want me to know he knew, without actually saying it? Why? To put me on edge? Was he fishing? Was it just conversation?
“No kidding,” I said. “Yeah, weird, right, so see you.”
“Worse, Artie. I was telling Julius Dawes over at my house the other day you know, we were talking about it, how this van just keeps going, gets up speed, turns the corner and pins a young guy against a lamp-post.”
Dawes, I thought. Dawes had mentioned my car, the paint on my car.
“And?” I turned up my collar, tried to stay cool, though I could see in Radcliff’s face something bad was coming, some piece of news I didn’t want to hear.
“It kills him,” said Radcliff. “Even if it was an accident, even if it was just some fool left a hand brake off, or a drunk in another car who nudged the van out of place and set it rolling, we’re into vehicular homicide. Either way, I mean, that’s jail time, Artie, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 27
T here was already a crowd when I got to the Sugar Hill Club at ten, people looking for a good time. In the corner was a tall Christmas tree, blue and white lights looped through the branches, a silver star on top. Last time I’d been here was election night, six weeks ago. It seemed like years, but hard to forget-the joy, the celebration, and Lily.
I leaned on the bar, ate some peanuts from a bowl, and listened to the conversations swirl around me.
“Fucking Madoff. They should crucify him.”
“You saved anything when the shit came down?”
“ So not, but I’m stacking cheese like crazy now. Gotta save it.”
I needed a drink. I called out to Axel, the bartender, who crossed to me and said,“You wanna hear the one about the guy goes into a bar and drops dead…?”
“Zip it, man,” somebody shouted. “We heard that one already a hundred times. Enough!”
With his big soft shoulders, Axel was a chunky young guy built like a rugby player gone to seed. German mother, black GI dad, a crew cut dyed platinum, a red and white bandanna around his forehead, he was working on his routine as a stand-up comic. “So the other guy goes into the bar-Oh, fuck, I forgot the end,” Axel said. “What are you drinking, Artie? Man it is cold out there. Cold as you-know-what, witch’s tit in a brass bra-my old man used to say that in Berlin when I was a kid. He hated that weather. He wasn’t crazy about the Germans, either.” He laughed. “Have one on me, Artie.”
I asked for a beer. Axel set a bottle and a frosty glass on the bar.
“Ain’t seen you since, what was it, election night? I’m glad you brought your ass over here. It’s good to see you, man.”
I drank, looking at the door. I was waiting for Lily.
On the sound system Oscar Peterson was playing his elegant version of Christmas music, an album Lily once gave me. The six-piece combo played “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as such a lovely piece of music, it made me believe for a minute in the whole holiday thing.
I had a second beer. Somebody switched the sound system off and a guy went to the piano, and started to play. I’d heard him the summer before when I’d been at the club.
He was probably seventy at least, but when he played “You Took Advantage,” he ran through it like a virile young man, smiling, singing to himself.
I signaled to Axel. I wanted to know the piano player’s name, but a familiar voice interrupted.
“Martini please, Hendricks gin, straight up, very dry, with a twist. Make it a double.” It was Virgil Radcliff.
Radcliff, who’d said he’d be working all night, was sitting with Carver Lennox, the two of them talking and laughing. I was pretty surprised. Radcliff had told me he didn’t like the guy.
“Artie, come join us,” Lennox called. He held up his glass, a smoky, golden single malt in it, and offered me one.