“That’s ridiculous, Mike. That’s that’s not possible,” I stammered as I tried to reason why someone who was capable of such deceit and who lied so facilely and convincingly could not have carried out the cold-blooded murder of his consort.
“Better face it. Jed Segal goes to the head of the class. He has some very serious explaining to do before he gets cleared from the list of possibles. If he was the guy sharing the clams with Isabella an hour before she was killed, he’s got the access and the opportunity and-”
“But no motive, Mike, he’s got absolutely no motive to kill her. She’s the goose with the golden egg, for Chrissakes. The guy is making love to a gorgeous, world-famous movie idol it ain’t getting better than that for Jed Segal what the hell would he kill her for?“ I almost gagged on the expression ‘making love.” Clearly, those had been Jed’s condoms in my wastebasket. No wonder he was so concerned when I said we could do DNA testing to find out who Iz’s lover had been.
“No motive? Ha, that’s more bullshit. Suppose she threatened to tell you about their tryst? Suppose she told him he wasn’t as good in the sack as Johnny Garelli? Suppose she pissed him off like she did almost everyone else I’ve spoken with who was in her presence for more than ten minutes?”
I rocked back and forth in my chair, my arms crossed over my stomach as though they could quell the sickening as waves that rippled underneath their grip. “I can’t handle this Mike, I really can’t handle this. ”
”Sure you can, Coop. We’ll get you through it. What do you think you’re doing now?“ Mike asked as I brushed past him and headed for the door to my coat closet. I reached in for my trenchcoat and threw it on over my outfit, grabbing my keys, some cash, and moving toward the apartment door.
“Take those photos out of here with you when you finish your coffee and leave. I’m doing this one face to face. I know exactly where to find this lying piece of shit and I’m going to be the first one to accuse him of murder. It’ll be a pleasure.”
“Your old man is right about one thing, blondie this job really has trashed your vocabulary. Where’re we going? It’s after midnight.”
“Uh, uh, Mikey, I’m alone. I’ll grab a taxi. Point of honor. I can’t wait till tomorrow to look this guy in the eye and tell him all the things I want to say.“ Mike had a grip on my arm, holding me inside the apartment.
“I’ll handcuff you to this closet door and leave you here unless you tell me where Segal is and let me go with you. At worst, he’s a killer and he’s dangerous and at best, you’re a killer and I gotta protect him. C’mon, be reasonable. You need me there as a witness, if nothing else. Don’t do this, Alex, please don’t make a scene.“
My despair of ten minutes ago had turned to an almost manic punchiness at the prospect of confronting my infidel.
“Fine, Chapman, you want to be there with me, that’s fine. Wish I could get hold of Court TV this could be one of my better cross-examinations.“
We were out the door together and I turned to lock it as Mike warned me to remember my job and behave myself.
“Balls, Mikey! You better have balls tonight. I don’t care if I lose my job and I’m working at the Chilmark dump next week.”
“Where to?” he asked again as we began our descent in the elevator.
“The University Club. Tap Room. Lights and sirens, please, Detective Chapman.”
Mike pulled out of the driveway and headed west till we reached Fifth Avenue, where he turned left at my direction to go south to the “U‘ Club.
“You belong there? I mean, are you a member of this place?”
“No.”
“ No broads?“
“Yeah. They admitted women a few years ago, but it’s not for me. Jed’s a member, though. Likes to breakfast there or have lunch in the Grill, drink at the end of the day, use the pool and squash courts. The old guys the sixty- and seventy-year-olds most of them voted to let women in when the first lawsuits started. The thirty- and forty-year-olds you know, the ones who are a bit threatened by skirts they tried to keep women out. Male bonding, Mike. Doesn’t it move you?“
“What street?”
“Corner of Fifty-fourth and Fifth.”
As we crossed the intersection of Fifty-seventh Street – a caravan of Daily News trucks lumbering eastbound with their first load of morning papers for the all-night newsstands – I groaned as I leaned my head onto the seat back.
“Oh no. Don’t even let me think that this story’s going to be another tabloid headline.”
“You can go to the bank on that one, Coop. You better hope somebody goes through the front door of Carder’s tonight with an atomic blowtorch and walks out with the Hope diamond. Otherwise, if it’s a slow news day, you and Jed could be right on the front pages. I can see them in the newsroom now Post goes with single-word header in all caps: ”BETRAYED“ News uses ”SEX PROSECUTOR IN DEADLY LOVE TRIANGLE.“
“I’m not a ”sex prosecutor,“ dammit. That’s the same thing they tried to write when Iz was killed. I prosecute crimes of sexual assault, not sex.”
“That’s a healthy approach, blondie the semantics. Don’t worry about what the headlines say, it’s how they say it.”
“I don’t know who I feel worse about Battaglia, my mother, or me.”
“Good thing you got an alibi for the middle of the afternoon when Lascar was killed. You can bet that Pat McKinney will be in there telling Battaglia that you had the best motive to knock off your fair-weather friend for playing with your man behind your back.”
I was silent as I thought of the endless rounds of gossip this case would now generate in the office, where I had always worked to maintain a healthy distance between my personal and professional lives. Chills ran through me as I tried to make a mental list of my friends and my enemies, but I would have a chance to see them all by the end of the next day before I could ever attempt to parse up the groupings in my head.
Mike had gone around the block and come up directly in front of the club building at One West Fifty-fourth Street, defying the “NO PARKING‘ sign by sticking his laminated NYPD vehicle identification plate inside the windshield on the dashboard, announcing to the handful of nocturnal passersby that we had come to this bastion of gentility on official business. Sort of.
It was well after midnight as I led Chapman up the front steps and through the glass entrance doors of the University Club. It is one of the handsomest buildings in the City of New York a McKim, Mead, and White structure, built to house the private retreat established for educated gentlemen in 1865.
Up another few steps to the lobby where, on the left, a uniformed employee stood beside a large wooden board to record the comings and goings of members as they entered and left the building. Most of the time the initiated simply nodded their greetings upon arrival and he recognized them, sliding their small wooden nameplates into the appropriate place to mark their presence at the club.
I trooped past the startled guard, crossed through the formal lobby with its double-height ceiling, massive columns, and enormous marble fireplace, and went beyond the slow speed elevators to the back staircase which led directly up to the Tap Room, the bar on the second floor.
“Madam,” the unhappy lookout called out several times after me as I continued to ignore him, refusing to look back and hoping that Chapman was still at my heels. “Who are you, madam? I’m sorry but you’re not appropriately dressed for the Tap Room.” My trenchcoat was wide open, so he could see that the oversized man’s shirt, leggings, and Capezio ballet flats P S t marked a blatant departure from the dress code preferred her for the public rooms, which gave me added pleasure on my late-night odyssey.