Getting Away With Murder Page 9

  “Advertisers are trampling one another trying to buy space. Didier is the publisher and founder. He is an important man of our times. Morna has been his protégée since she was fourteen.”

  “Protégée. I like the sound of that. So, neither one of them is interested in any of Abe Wise’s big bucks?”

  “Hardly, Mr. C.”

  “And what is Julie’s attraction for Santerre and Morna McGuire? Is she a designer or something?”

  “Julie has a flair for creating interest. People watch her. The columnists notice where she goes, what she does and, of course, what she wears.”

  “I begin to understand, Lily. Do you think Hart would kill his father?” I said, trying a new direction.

  “He might want to,” she said, without changing her expression, “but frankly I doubt if he has the guts.”

  “Can you think of an enemy, from the present or the past who might want to see him dead?” She thought for a moment, while I finished off the last strand of linguine or fettuccine or whatever it was lying there alone on my plate.

  “He’s led such a strange life. It’s hard to imagine where to start looking for enemies. But, apart from the general hurly-burly of a life in criminal circles, and a lot of people who would figuratively like to wring his neck, I can’t think of a solitary name. Nothing stands out.”

  “Thank you for helping out, Lily.”

  “I only hope I haven’t muddied the waters.”

  “Oh, one thing: what do you know about a policeman named Neustadt?”

  “He’s the one who just died, isn’t he? That was a strange sort of accident. Like falling up a flight of stairs. Abe used to talk about him. He thought that he wasn’t straight. There was something not quite right, crooked, maybe, about him. I’ve heard others say it too. I think he went a little off his head, didn’t he? I know that Abe hated his guts, that’s all. Abe used to brood about Ed Neustadt. I suppose it was mutual. Those things often are. I think he was funny about women.”

  “How do you mean, ‘funny’?”

  “I met him a few times at different functions when he was deputy chief or acting chief. A woman senses these things.”

  “If Neustadt wasn’t already dead, I’d say I’d found the man trying to kill your ex-husband.”

  “Maybe you have, Mr. C. Have you thought of that? When did he die? If Abe discovered that Neustadt was trying to kill him, he’d put out a contract on him pretty quick. Maybe, you aren’t the only one working on this case. Maybe Abe’s already taken care of it.”

  “But why would he hire me?”

  “Why as a cover, of course. Don’t you ever read mystery stories?”

  TWELVE

  Brighton Motors occupied the space where the old county jail used to stand on the east side of Niagara Street. I could still remember the forbidding grey building with dead ivy clinging to the high walls. Now the property was a used-car lot specializing in British and foreign cars. There was a showroom in front with an antique red MG in the window and a garage with a dusty black Jaguar on the hoist. Beyond was a lot-full of dodgy investments in metal and rubber with prices marked on the windshields in large digits. I walked past three idle salesmen on my way to the office. They were staring out the showroom windows watching the wind blow paper garbage into snowbanks sheltering in the shadows.

  Shaw was sitting behind a desk that was even messier than mine was in the middle of a case. He was a bull-necked, squat man with short-cropped red hair, kept that way to try to hide the fact that his hair was rapidly making way for a better view of the top of his head. The shirt he was wearing was on its second day, and the knot in his orange-and-black striped tie was staying as far away from the open collar as it could. I was happy to have the cluttered desk sitting between us.

  “So you’re Cooperman. I’ve been hearing about you.”

  “Nothing actionable, I hope?”

  “You changed the balance in the legal social register in this fair city. Putting Julian Newby away like that. The local fan hasn’t been hit with anything like that since that big toxic-waste trucking scandal. Hell! You were involved in that too!”

  “We try to be useful. What is going on between you and Abe Wise’s son, Hart?”

  “Ah! The old boy speaks through you, eh? I was wondering in what form he’d appear.” Shaw swivelled around in his chair so that he could really look me over. Before this I’d been given an oblique survey while his main attention was turned to the venetian blinds.

  “That’s a fair assumption, based on what you know, Mr. Shaw, but not necessarily correct. I may have my own reasons for wanting to know about this. And Hart has a mother too, you know.”

  “What kind of silly smokescreen are you trying to spread, Cooperman? You’re working for the old man. Let’s not play games. Sit down and maybe we can see how we can both make a dollar.” I sat down in the worn customer’s chair with the stuffing just beginning to show from under the arms and waited. I was hoping that he would make the first pitch; Instead, he began rearranging an assortment of ballpoint pens in a shiny black distributor cap.

  “The kid comes in here and gives me some bad paper, Cooperman,” he said when he had thought about it for a second or two. “That makes me mad. Anybody else and it’s an offence. But for him, it’s like rolling over in bed. He doesn’t even notice. It’s like he’s trying to tell me that he lives by a whole different set of rules from me and you. How would you react to that?”

  “It’s pretty hard to prove intent to defraud, Mr. Shaw. Haven’t you ever bounced a cheque by mistake?”

  “Mistake? What are you talking about?”

  “We both know that, Shaw. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ve already done it. Right away I called up Whitey York. There’s nobody like Whitey for making a sweet settlement. It’s in his court now, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’ll just sit back and wait.”

  “Aren’t you taking a risk? Suppose Wise is involved. Or, suppose he makes it his business whether the kid likes it or not. They say kneecaps take a long time to heal. Are you up to this, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Is that your message from Wise? I’m surprised at you, Cooperman. I thought you played it right down the middle.”

  “Like you, Mr. Shaw?” Shaw grunted and fiddled with some of the paper on his desk. It wasn’t very convincing. “Who is Whitey York? I’ve heard the name, but I can’t place it.”

  “I thought you kept up with these things? When Rupe McLay left Wilson, Carleton, Meyers and Devlin, Whitey York took over his office. He doesn’t drink as much as Rupe used to, and he chases more ambulances. Whitey’s a go-getter and still in his twenties.”

  “God help us! Look, Mr. Shaw, this is from the horse’s mouth. Abe Wise is not on good terms with his son. Not only isn’t he interested in Hart’s bad paper, he’s not even interested in breaking your kneecaps. What Hart does is Hart’s business. If the kid can’t cover his bad paper, how do you expect him to pay your costs on top of the price of the car? I think you are holding a stone with the last ounce of blood squeezed out of it.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Cooperman, but I also see where you’re coming from. Wise’s paying your way, not Hart.”

  “You think Abe Wise hires PIs to settle his small claims? Get smart. Get a little smart.”

  “Sure, I know he has a lot of muscle. But what am I supposed to do with a rubber cheque?”

  “Give it to me,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Whitey’s got it.”

  “Great!” This was information, a fact if it held up, a scarce item in my trade. “What was the amount, if you don’t mind sharing it with a complete stranger?”

  “We’re talking in the neighbourhood of forty-five grand, Mr. Cooperman. What with wear and tear on my nerves and costs.”

  “Wilson, Carleton still on King across from the market?” He nodded and I put my hat back on. I looked through his back window, while I was buttoning my coat: more used sports cars than you’
d see at a summer rally.

  “There’s still bodies buried out there.”

  “What?”

  “Bodies. You know. This used to be the jail. They moved some of them, the recent ones, but they couldn’t find them all.”

  “You mean bodies of prisoners who died in custody?”

  “Those that the county wouldn’t bury. There were the two that were hanged buried back there. That old jail was right out of Dickens. Great Expectations and Oliver Twist. It was built back in the 1860s with walls twenty-five, thirty inches thick.” Shaw held his hands apart to show the distance, just in case I was slow with numbers and spacial relationships. “But six people escaped, you know. Not a bad record for the century or so it stood here.” He was looking out the window with me and, for the moment at least, not seeing his fleet of aging canvas tops and rusting chromium.

  The sign in front of Wilson, Carleton, Meyers and Devlin hadn’t formally added Whitey York to the establishment, but upstairs outside the new burgundy-painted front door they did own up to having an R.B. York as a junior partner in the firm. I could see where it had been added to the space vacated by Rupe McLay.

  I gave my name to the receptionist and waited for her to check my name against her list of appointments. When she brought to my attention the fact that I was appointmentless, I suggested that she walk my name through Whitey York’s door to see if that helped. It must have, because I hadn’t advanced very far in Maclean’s magazine before a tall, youthful man with a shock of the fairest hair I’d ever seen outside a baby carriage was stooping over my reading. “Mr. Cooperman? This is a great pleasure! I just got a call from our mutual friend telling me that you might be paying a call. Will you come into my office?” I followed him and he led the way to the very place I’d had a long heart-to-heart with McLay three months ago. McLay’s decor was gone, of course. All those touches that advertised failure had vanished. A paint job and the best of new designer office equipment had been substituted. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked. I shook my head before discovering that I would very much like one. I must try to get closer to my innermost feelings.

  The formalities out of the way, York sat behind his desk with a steeple where his fingers should be. I told him that I was representing Paulette Staples, the mother of Hart Wise, in the matter of the bad cheque. I told him that the money and reasonable costs would be paid if the bad joke stopped here and now. I was going out on a limb, but I couldn’t see any saw marks. “There is no way that you are going to involve Abe Wise,” I said. “Your harassment of the boy is becoming a serious hazard to his health. We are considering action.”

  “Boy? That kid is thirty-five if he’s a day! And if his health can’t take a boilerplate form letter, then—”

  “There has been harassment on the phone as well.”

  “Harassment? You’re out of your mind!”

  “We want this business settled, Mr. York, today.”

  “I’ll have to discuss this with my client, of course, Mr. Cooperman.”

  “You just got off the phone with your client, or have you forgotten?”

  “We don’t want to be rushed into a hasty decision, Mr. Cooperman.”

  “I thought that you were all in a tizzy about getting your rightful money? Have I been misinformed?”

  “Ah, not at all. I’m still trying to assess our damages, but we are glad to see that reason and good sense are prevailing. Far too much time is wasted on unnecessary legal work.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Would you be able to send an invoice to my office by the end of the day?”

  “We’ll certainly be in touch.”

  “By the way, where is the car now?”

  “Car? Oh, you mean the car! Hart Wise has that, I think. Better ask Shaw.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks, Mr. York. Good to do business with you.”

  We shook hands, and in another minute, I’d climbed down the stairs and was walking through the open-air farmers’ market. I suppose I should have made my way south on James Street to my office, but I wandered around the market stalls for a few minutes, enjoying a glimpse of sausages and hams, cheeses, and early hothouse vegetables instead. It made thinking easier. I was wondering whether I had been wasting my time with Shaw and York. Was it their pressure on Hart that threatened to turn him into a parricide? I doubted it, but at least it was action, something accomplished.

  Hart had been driving the Triumph when I saw him at his mother’s. There was no doubt about who had possession of the car. But Whitey York had been vague about it. As I guessed, neither Shaw nor York gave a damn about the car; it was Hart they were after. They needed him as a stick to get at his father. I had a sudden image of boys poking at a wasps’ nest. I began to feel pleased with my progress. I only hoped that Abe Wise had a sense of humour about expenses.

  THIRTEEN

  All of the local mandarins were there with their darkest suits and warmest coats on to wish a final farewell to Edwin Ernest Neustadt, late of this parish. They stood on the graves of other men and women to press as close to the open grave as possible. From my pitch at the rear, I could recognize many familiar faces wearing their most solemn expressions looking across the plastic green grass that had been thrown over the disturbed earth. I’m sure that I would have known most of the faces belonging to the backs in front of me as well. The Niagara Regional Police was well represented. The police band played a slow march and the casket was lifted from a gun carriage by six strapping officers in their parade uniforms. Pete Staziak was standing near a tall monument that pointed skyward, with his expression blending into the uniformly sombre vista. A eulogy was read by a high-ranking Salvation Army officer, an old friend of the deceased. Neustadt had, he told us, in ample quantity all of the manly qualities. His word was his bond; his virtues beyond enumeration. His time with the police force had seen many important changes, of which Edwin Neustadt had been a part. He was seen as one of the architects of the Regional Police which succeeded the earlier, more primitive Grantham Police Force. Neustadt’s elderly widow stood steadfast at the grave-side, supported by a married daughter and her husband. A hymn was sung, or at least attempted, while the police band tried to lead, then to follow, the singing. We heard the ashes-to-ashes section of the burial service. Again the words hit me as though they were directed at me personally. The coffin was lowered into the ground and the widow shook the hand of the Salvation Army eulogist. After that, everything began to break up.

  I had spotted Abram Wise standing beside Mickey and his wife a few rows in front of me. It was Victoria I saw first. Her dark hair was covered by a kerchief. Wise was almost hidden by the people standing between us. Mickey’s attention to his boss’s other business gave me a sense of relief. I felt almost free, and postponed a look over my shoulder to see who was in charge of keeping me in sight.

  I stood my ground as the company dispersed. The bandsmen marched off smartly as did the uniformed police. But Staziak was still talking to a brother plainclothes officer across the open grave from me. He was rubbing his hands in the frosty air. Wisps of vapour told me which of them was talking even when I couldn’t see their faces. Staziak stomped his feet and plunged his hands into his overcoat pockets.

  An old survivor of the police force was being helped away by a middle-aged man in a windbreaker. “Did I have a coat?” he asked, not noticing the one he was wearing. Even in civilian clothes, you could see that he’d worn a uniform for decades. He kept looking back over his shoulder. “Wasn’t there a woman with us when we came?” The man in the windbreaker moved him slowly away from the grave.

  Wise too wasn’t in a rush to leave the grave-side. He was examining the faces of those who had come to assist, as the French say, at the funeral. He seemed to be amused when he discovered people staring at him. When his eyes reached mine, he stopped. “What are you doing here, my friend?” he asked when he had closed the distance.

  “You are my business, Mr. Wise.” I nodded a greeting to both Mickey and his wife. Micke
y smiled back. “You told me that you were coming to the funeral. I was interested to discover why.”

  “Did you find that out?”

  “Not yet, but I may get lucky. Too bad Chief Neustadt can’t tell me.”

  “A lot of grief died with Neustadt, I’ll tell you, Mr. Cooperman. A lot of grief and evil! How are you coming along since we talked?”

  “I think that I’ve eliminated the threat of embarrassment over that antique car. It will cost you, but I didn’t think that was a consideration. Your name won’t come into it.”

  “My retarded son’s business is no concern of yours, Cooperman. I’ll deal with Shaw and York in my own way. I suppose you want to be thanked for your efforts, eh? But don’t forget why I hired you. You lose me and you won’t see a penny, I can assure you.”

  “Thanks for the testimonial, Mr. Wise. I could get fat and rich on an endorsement like that.”

  “Save your wit for your work, Cooperman. Good-afternoon.” He pulled at Mickey’s arm and the three of them moved through the thinning crowd back to a car parked somewhere on the narrow lane that twisted its way through the cemetery.

  “You never know what you’ll find at a funeral!” I knew it was Pete without turning. He must have doubled around behind me, because I was still looking at the spot on the other side of the open plot where he had been standing.

  “Hello, Pete. This is a bad day for the force. My deepest sympathy, Pete.”

  “Thanks, Benny. Nice crowd?”

  “I guess it’s a major loss, eh?”

  “Old Ed had been retired from actively contributing to our efforts for some years, Benny. But this is the send-off he would have wanted: parade uniforms, muffled drums, slow march, all of that stuff. Ed liked the drill. Me, I don’t much care for the soldiery, all that military stuff. It leaves me cold.”

  “All funerals do that. What took the late chief off to his reward, Pete? Some kind of accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Deputy chief, Benny. He never made it to the top. He was acting chief for a year; that was enough.”