Black Orchid Blues Page 16

  Shit. “You got a pay phone?”

  “That’ll be a quarter up front.”

  Highway robbery, but I paid. She dragged a phone from under her desk, put it on the counter, and shoved it toward me.

  I moved the phone a bit further away, turned my back on her, and made the call.

  Sam answered on the first ring. “Delaney.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Lanie! Where have you been? Blackie and I have been looking all over for you.”

  In short, terse sentences, I filled him in on the letter Sheila received, the further instructions, her confession that the kidnapping was a fake, and what had happened that morning.

  “She’s gone,” I concluded. “And she took the ransom with her, all of it.”

  “Shit.”

  I braced for what I knew would come next.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?” I started to answer, but he cut me off. “Don’t bother. It’s obvious.”

  “I’ve got to call Blackie,” I said. “You were right. I should’ve done that to begin with.”

  “Let me take care of it. You go home.”

  I took another step away from Mercer and forced myself to lower my voice. “I can’t go home. I have to get over to the Bernards and explain everything.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Lanie, you’re too close. You said the Bernards don’t even know about the second letter. By now they must have realized that Sheila’s vanished, but they don’t know why. And they know the money’s gone too. Last thing we need is for you to arrive and tell them what’s happened.”

  “I’m the best person to make them understand—”

  “Understand what? That you let Sheila walk into a trap?”

  “I let—”

  “That’s how they’re going to see it. They’re going to blame you, maybe even hold the paper responsible. They’re certainly not going to talk to you.”

  “I’m the one person they might talk to.”

  “Only to call you every name in the book.” His voice was hurried, intense. “Anything they might say will be colored by their reaction to you personally. Go home.”

  “But—”

  “Back. Off.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Strivers’ Row appeared to be an oasis of tranquility in the seething urban sea around it. But that was only an appearance. There was one household, at least, where nothing was quiet, where emotions were in turmoil and the occupants clinging to their sanity. The news I had to deliver wouldn’t make it any easier.

  By the time I returned to Strivers’, I’d calmed down somewhat. I understood Sam’s motives. His instinct was to protect me from the pain of the Bernards and the fury of the police. But it was wrong to hide. I had walked into this mess knowing the danger, and I wasn’t going to leave it to someone else to clean up.

  The good doctor must’ve been watching the street. He opened the door before I could even knock.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But she told you something, didn’t she? She likes you.”

  “I like her too.”

  He was furious and disgusted and obviously tempted to slam the door in my face, but common sense prevailed. He stepped aside and let me in.

  Phyllis Bernard was sitting on the living room sofa, in pretty much the same spot I had last seen her. She even wore the same dress, an indication perhaps of her emotional state.

  I started with Sheila’s call, relating that she’d gotten another letter. I told them everything except Sheila’s admission that the kidnapping was a fake. I suspected they already realized this, but I wasn’t ready for them to know that I also knew.

  “I suppose you’ve told the police,” Dr. Bernard said.

  “They’re being informed as we speak.”

  His voice was cold with repressed fury. “Thank you for doing everything possible to destroy our last chance of saving our so—” He caught himself.

  “Your what? Your son?”

  There was the faintest change in his eyes.

  “It’s time to stop the pretending,” I said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do.”

  Telling lies was a reflex in this family. He even managed to make his eyes flash with righteous anger. “You want to talk about pretending?” He wagged a finger at me. “How about pretending that the money’s not all gone. All of it. Every single mother-loving dime. How about pretending that the girl wasn’t in on it.”

  “What?”

  He advanced toward me. “And while we’re at it, let’s pretend that you’re not in on it either.”

  I don’t want to admit it, but he got to me. He got to me so bad I wanted to smack him. Me, a peace-loving person. I put a fist on my hip.

  “I’m not even going dignify that nonsense about me, but I will say this: I know you’re not talking about Sheila. That girl loves your boy. Yes, your boy. Don’t give me that look. I know all about it. It was your boy behind all this. He lied and faked his own kidnapping—and got a whole lot of people shot while doing it.”

  I’ve got to give it to him: he didn’t back down. He was one of the most committed liars I’d ever met.

  “Leave,” he hissed. “Get out. Right now, or else I’m—”

  The doorbell rang and we all jumped. Then came a hard, rapid knock. Dr. Bernard strode to the window and peeped out. I could’ve told him not to bother.

  “It’s some white guy,” he said.

  “Probably a salesman,” his wife said.

  “More likely a cop,” I said. “They always show up at the worst time. You can ignore him, but he’s not going away.”

  The knocking came again, harder this time, insistent. Dr. Bernard cursed under his breath and went to answer. Phyllis Bernard and I were suddenly alone. We studied each other with wary eyes.

  From the hallway came the sound of Dr. Bernard and the Irish brogue that told me it was Blackie. There was the sound of a door closing, but no footsteps came down the hall. The two men must’ve stepped outside.

  In the parlor, the silence between Phyllis and me stretched out. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t said one of the most important but useless things one can say in a situation as dismal as this.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “very sorry, that these things have happened. But there’s still hope—”

  “Sheila.” Her voice was merely a whisper, but it was heavy with loathing. “That little tramp. I knew she was trouble the minute I laid eyes on her. I knew it.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  She pounded her knee. “We could’ve handled him. We could’ve worked it out, but no …” She shook her head. “She had to go and put the notion of a kidnapping into his head. He wouldn’t have gone and done something like this on his own. Only someone like her would think we’re rich. Shows you the kind of people she’s from.”

  While I never fully bought the image of the kindly, genteel doctor’s wife, I had never suspected this. Not this.

  She caught my expression. “You’ve got to understand something. My husband and I … we have scraped and scrimped our whole lives to get what we have. And we’re this much away from losing it.” She held up a thumb and index finger barely an inch apart.

  “We had to mortgage this house to raise the money. My husband didn’t want to. This house represents just about everything we have, so no, he didn’t want to do it. He hoped the kidnappers would be happy with what cash we had. But they weren’t, so I pushed him.”

  She shook her head. “Damn Junior for getting involved with crooks and gangsters. How could he have been so stupid? First to marry that little wench, and now this!” She drew a deep breath. “We should’ve stuck to our guns. We were going to let him stew in his own juices, but after that horrible package arrived, we—I just couldn’t. I had to do something. So, I pushed Alfred to go to the bank, and now …” She burst into sobs. “It’s gone. Everything we have. Gone.”
<
br />   She was weeping over the lost money, the lost house, not the lost son. I disagreed with what Junior had done, but now I had an inkling of why he’d done it.

  The front door opened and a cool breeze swept down the hallway. Seconds later, Dr. Bernard came in, Blackie right behind him. The detective paused at seeing me. Annoyance and frustration flashed across his face. Then he donned that professional mask again as Dr. Bernard introduced his wife. “I’m very sorry to hear what you folks have been going through,” Blackie told her. “I know from speaking to your husband that Miss Price here,” he flicked a lethal glance at me, “has informed you of what’s happened, that both your daughter and the ransom money have disappeared.” He gave me another frosty glare, one that clearly said to keep my mouth shut. Then he continued to speak to them. His voice stayed moderate, his tone sympa-thetic, but an edge crept into it. “I wish you’d come to us, but I understand why you didn’t.”

  “We were so frightened,” Phyllis Bernard said, sounding sweet and vulnerable again.

  Blackie nodded. “Yes, well, why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me—”

  “Excuse me. I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Dr. Bernard said, “but we don’t have time for talking. Somewhere, somebody out there has got all our money. I need to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  “I assure you,” Blackie said, “we’re already on it. You’d be helping us by sharing what the kidnappers have said to you.” He paused. “And I’d like to see the box.”

  “The box?” Dr. Bernard repeated.

  “Yes, the cigar box … with everything that was in it.”

  Dr. Bernard shot me another furious look. Clearly, he did not want to comply, but there was no getting out of it. He slowly stalked out of the room.

  “Poor Sheila,” Phyllis Bernard said. “Why would they take her?”

  My lips tightened at her hypocrisy. It took all of my restraint not to say something.

  “As extra insurance,” Blackie replied, “in case something should go wrong.”

  “Something like what?” she wailed. “They got their blood money. We’ve given them what they asked for.”

  “Trust me. We’ll know soon enough,” Blackie said.

  Dr. Bernard returned with the cigar box and handed it to Blackie. The detective lifted the lid, glanced at the severed finger, then opened the letter, keeping his face devoid of expression. He spoke without looking up.

  “Dr. and Mrs. Bernard, when did you realize that the kidnapping was a fake?”

  Bless Blackie. His question hit home. Dr. Bernard looked as though he’d been punched. He glanced at me, as if I were to blame for all their troubles, before turning to his now silent wife.

  Dr. Bernard composed himself. “From the start, but we were wrong.”

  Blackie peered up. “I’m listening.”

  “My son, Junior, he’s been after us for his money, his inheritance. I told him he couldn’t have it, that he’d have to wait. Then all of a sudden this kidnapping happened. It was too much of a coincidence. So, when the kidnappers called, I told him them we weren’t having it, that we knew it was a hoax, just Junior trying to get his money. Later I changed my mind.”

  “This cigar box did that?” Blackie said.

  Dr. Bernard nodded.

  Suddenly, the shrill ring of the phone cut through the room. Blackie pointed to the receiver, then said, “If it’s him, get him to talk. Make friendly.”

  Dr. Bernard snatched up the telephone and Blackie moved in close to listen in. From where I was standing I could pick up that it was a male voice, but I couldn’t catch any words. Next thing I knew, Dr. Bernard had handed the phone to Blackie.

  The detective listened intently. Whatever he was hearing made him turn toward me.

  “I’ll be there,” he said, and hung up. “Dr. Bernard, I have to go, but I’ll be back to—”

  “Was that about Sheila?” Dr. Bernard asked. “Or the money?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t say more. Miss Price, you’ll come with me.”

  I could feel Phyllis Bernard’s eyes on my back as I left the room. She stayed in the parlor as Dr. Bernard came up behind us. He didn’t exactly escort us to the door, but he most certainly slammed it behind us.

  CHAPTER 31

  Blackie held the door for me and I slid into the front passenger seat of the unmarked car. Then he went around the other side, started the engine, and pulled into traffic. All without saying a word.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Come on, Blackie, tell me.”

  “Pipe down, Lanie. You’re on thin ice already.”

  Okaaay. After a minute, I started counting backward. “Ten … nine … eight … seven …”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Counting down till your explosion. It’s due any second now.”

  He started to answer, then swallowed it. But when we stopped at a red light, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You should’ve known better!”

  I didn’t try to defend myself. Deep down, I agreed.

  “I know you feel sorry for the Bernards,” he began. “But they’re not the only ones who’ve got a stake in this mess. There are other families—and I don’t just mean the Harvard kid’s either. I mean all the folks of the people who got blown away.” He rubbed his chin. “Shit!” He pounded the steering wheel.

  I dared pose a question. I knew it was bothering him because it was bothering me. “Are you going to tell the victims’ families that the kidnapping was a fake, that their people died because of a family feud?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “Eventually. Maybe. But right now, I got something else to do.”

  The intersection of West 135th Street and Lenox Avenue formed a wide quadrangle, with two-way traffic flowing both north-south and east-west. Some people called this vehicular nexus the heart of Harlem. Maybe it was. If so, its arterial flow had come to a halt.

  Hundreds of onlookers crowded the sidewalks, held back by police officers with truncheons. The focus of their attention was a huddled mass in the middle of the intersection. Newspaper photographers jockeyed for position. Reporters screamed out questions. Seeing me, more than one yelled, “Hey, how come she gets to go up close?”

  Blackie ignored them all. He half-knelt by the small figure lying in the middle of the road, his face expressionless. I stood next to him.

  “Is it her?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered, “it’s her.”

  Sheila lay on her right side. Her face and chest were bloodied, her legs splayed. One arm was thrown back and bent at an impossible angle. Her skirt was caught up around her hips, her stockings ripped and dirtied. She looked exposed and vulnerable. I reached out to draw her skirt down, but Blackie stopped me with a hand on my wrist.

  “Not yet. Not till the M.E.’s done and the photos are taken.” He observed me curiously. “What’s the matter with you? You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “Please. It’s not necessary to take pictures of her like this.”

  After a moment, he relented.

  I arranged the skirt to restore modesty. “She deserved better.” I meant that she deserved better help than I’d given her, but he took it otherwise.

  “Yup. Looks like she was a sweet kid.” Blackie let his gaze roam among the crowd. “Olmo, oh Olmo, where are you now, you crazy son of a bitch?”

  The left side of her face was swollen and bruised. Someone had worked her over, then pushed her out of a moving car and kept on driving. But that wasn’t what killed her. It was being kissed in the head by a .38.

  “He put the gun right up against her skin,” Blackie said.

  The star-shaped hole in her forehead looked like a third eye, the skin around it puffed and blackened.

  “Why’d he kill her?” I asked. “He had his money.”

  “Did he?”

  Blackie extended his hand and a uniform who had been standing nearby passed him a bag. It was
the satchel Sheila had taken from the hotel.

  “He threw it out with the body.” Blackie yanked the bag open.

  I looked inside and saw bundles of money. “I don’t understand.”

  He took out a bundle and rifled through it. The first layer was a genuine twenty all right, but the rest was newspaper.

  “Oh no!”

  “Bernard signed her death warrant when he did that. Did you know he was going to do something that stupid?”

  I shook my head.

  Blackie cursed under his breath. “Un-effin’-believable. Just how selfish can one man be?”

  I thought of Phyllis Bernard and how she’d bewailed the loss of all their money. Was she that good an actress, or had she really not known what her husband was up to?

  Blackie was also still thinking of the Bernards. “I’ve got to tell them,” he said. “You can go back to your newsroom for the time being, but I’m trusting you to keep mum about the fake dough.”

  Seemed like the deeper I got into this story, the less I could write about it. “Sure. Fine.”

  Even though I agreed to do as he asked, something about my tone must have set him off.

  “Just answer me this: what were you thinking, not saying anything about the cigar box and going up to that hotel by yourself?”

  “I was thinking about doing my job.”

  “You’re not a cop. You’re a reporter.”

  “And a damn good one. If—”

  “It never would’ve come to this if you’d been straight with me.”

  “I gave them my word.”

  “Well, you had no business giving it. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And you just proved it.”

  I shut up. He was right. If I’d followed the rules and gotten backup, then Sheila wouldn’t have been able to sneak out of that hotel. Someone would’ve been there to grab her, or follow her and the guy who did her in.

  Blackie was grim. “Olmo’s going to be calling the Bernards, and when he does I want you to stay out of it.”