Love is Murder

Chapter 12

PHOENIX OPENED THE front passenger door of a dark sedan and I got in. Until I saw the two-way radio hook-up, and the red bubble light balanced on top of the dashboard, I wouldn’t have known it was an unmarked police vehicle. As I fastened my seat belt, I thought about the surprising turn my life had taken.

Because someone had tried to kill Damon, I met Matt Phoenix, the first man to interest me since I came back to New York. And now, because someone had succeeded in killing my horrible boss, I would not get to know this detective with the mysterious grandfather and the terrific aunt. Phoenix was investigating Damon’s murder, and I was on the list of people who might be the killer.

My life had become a daytime drama.

While I was musing on the thin line between life and art, Phoenix had climbed into the driver’s seat, fastened his own safety belt and put the car in motion. I looked at his strong profile and decided his was a face I might like to photograph.

“What’s the number on East Seventy-Seventh?” he asked.

“Three forty-five.”

“So you know the address without looking it up,” he said. From the tone of his voice, it sounded as though he had judged me and found me guilty of something.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked. “Everything you’ve said to me tonight sounds like an accusation.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Did you lose your charm pills?”

That forced a smile to his lips; his tone softened. “I wish you hadn’t come to the scene when Niles phoned you,” he said.

“Why not?”

“You’re calling attention to yourself. Why did you come?”

“Joe and Tommy Zenos and I work together as a team. Whenever there’s a problem, we come to each other’s aid.”

“Niles called you, he didn’t call Zenos. Why not?”

“Tommy is a good producer. He’s smart and efficient, he knows when to delegate and he has a good eye for spotting talent,” I said, “but when it comes to real life, Tommy tends to go to pieces in a crisis.”

“Look, Morgan, I don’t think you killed Radford, so let’s get you out of the line of fire. Tell me where you were tonight.”

“Home alone all evening, editing scripts. Rewriting behind a new writer who hasn’t got some of the voices right yet.”

“Voices?”

“When writers create dialogue for established characters, we have to craft their lines in the particular way those characters—those actors—speak. Use the words and phrases, or style of speech that are their . . . their verbal fingerprints, I guess you’d say. For example, one of our characters never uses contractions when he speaks. Another one seldom finishes a sentence. Somebody can be a good writer, but not necessarily have a good ‘ear’ for individual nuances.” I realized I’d been rattling on and took a breath. “That was a long answer to a short question.”

“You have a nice voice; I like to hear you talk.”

At that moment, he sounded as though the detective part of him had gone off duty. It felt like I was sitting beside the man who walked me home after dinner and told me I have nice hair. “Matt, will you tell me what happened to Damon—at least what you know.”

“That’s not much. Yet. We think the railing was too high for Radford to go over by himself—not with casts on one arm and one leg. But it wasn’t the fall that killed him.”

I was stunned. “Then what—?”

“There’s a bullet hole in Radford’s head.”

TERESA GLEASON RADFORD and her son occupy a twelve-room apartment in a fine old residential building on East Seventy-Seventh. One of the best in a sea of concrete bests. “I’ve been here once before,” I said as we walked into the lobby, “to take Jeremy home after the last Emmy Awards because Damon had ‘things to do,’ as he put it.”

Matt showed his badge to the man at the security desk and said that Detective Phoenix and Mrs. Tyler were here to see Mrs. Radford.

The security man’s eyes widened. “Did something happen?” he asked.

“Please ring Mrs. Radford’s apartment for us.”

He picked up the house phone and dialed. After a few seconds someone answered and he announced our presence. He listened, mumbled “Yes, ma’am,” and replaced the receiver. “She says to come up. Apartment Fourteen B.”

As Matt pushed the elevator button, he said, “I’ve never understood why so many buildings refuse to admit they have a thirteenth floor. No matter what they call it, the floor above twelve is thirteen.”

“Maybe they think the Bad Luck Fairy can’t count.”

It was not one of my wittiest responses, but it was nearly 3 A.M. on yet another night when I hadn’t had enough sleep.

Teresa was standing in the entrance to Fourteen B when we got off the elevator. Either she slept in her eye makeup or she had the fastest hand in the East with a mascara wand. And her abundant red hair was freshly brushed. She looked tired, but even two hours before dawn she was a beautiful woman. At the hospital, and now, in her foyer, whatever illumination there was caught the perfect contours of her face in just the right way. Directors of photography must have loved lighting Teresa Gleason.

“Detective Phoenix . . . and Morgan. Good morning.”

She ushered us into an enormous living room, decorated in country French antiques and fabrics. As she guided us toward a seating area, the heavy silk of her caftan made a soft, swishing noise. It was the only sound in the room. She gestured for us to sit, but we both chose to stand.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

I felt as though I was third row center in a Broadway theater, watching her play the young Queen Victoria. Has something happened?

“We have some bad news, Mrs. Radford,” Matt began. “Your husband—”

“My former husband.” Her icy tone was like a slap in his face. Matt’s eyes narrowed at her.

“Your former husband,” he said. “Damon Radford is dead.”

I wasn’t surprised Matt had omitted the traditional “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I said, “We didn’t want you and Jeremy to hear this from the news.”

“That was very thoughtful of you, Morgan. I’ll tell Jeremy when—”

“I’m awake, Mom.”

He had come into the living room through an archway to our left. He was wearing pajama bottoms and a NY Knicks T-shirt, and his hair was sleep-rumpled. He looked apprehensive as he asked, “What’s going on?”

I thought Teresa was going to say something, but she didn’t.

His eyes shifted from his mother to me. “What’s happened, Morgan?”

“It’s your dad,” I said. I was aching with sadness for this boy who loved a man he had never really known. But maybe it was better that Jeremy didn’t know the kind of man his father really was. I reached out for his hand as I said, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this—”

Teresa finished the sentence for me. “He’s dead.” Her voice was devoid of emotion. I wondered why she hadn’t said, “Your father is dead.”

Jeremy’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t go to his mother for comfort; instead, he stood up straighter, as though good posture would help ease his pain. He ignored the tears that began to course down his cheeks.

Teresa became all business. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “At the hospital they told us Damon was going to be all right. Did he have some internal injuries? Did the doctors commit malpractice . . .”

“Mom!” Jeremy’s voice was sharp.

Teresa responded to his rebuke. She tried to sound as though she cared, but it was not one of her better performances. “Why did he die?” she asked.

Matt was terse. “He fell from his balcony.”

Teresa gasped. One soft, creamy hand flew to her throat.

Jeremy’s eyes widened in shock. “How’d that happen? He couldn’t even walk.”

“We’re investigating,” Matt told him. Then he added, in a gentle voice, and to Jeremy alone: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The boy nodded at Matt, then said to me, “Thanks for coming over, Morgan. I appreciate it.” At that moment, he sounded more like a man than a boy.

“THE KID’S GOT a crush on you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, yeah. We sensitive guys can spot these things.” He meant for me to smile at that, and I did. We were back in the car, and he was driving me home.

“I suppose he likes me,” I said. “And if he does, it’s because I’ve spent time with him at the network functions his father brought him to. He would take Jeremy to a table, and then leave him surrounded by strangers for most of the evening. Jeremy and I seemed to gravitate to each other—two almost outsiders.”