Westermann shared an elevator with an elderly couple who he recognized but couldn’t place, giving them a warm, whiskey smile—he’d had a couple at the bar across the street, steeling himself for this party. The woman was wearing a fortune in diamonds. Westermann was in a tux, required for any party at the Helios Club. The elevator doors opened to the sound of a swing band grooving over dozens of conversations. The air was cool.
Westermann followed the elderly couple into the room, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He wasn’t sure of the occasion for this party, but you didn’t turn down an invitation from his father. A Negro waiter approached with a tray of champagne glasses and Westermann took one.
He walked into the midst of the party. Powerful men and women who were either beautiful or once beautiful socialized, gossiped, and made deals over cocktails. This had been Westermann’s world for the first twenty years of his life, as far from the world of the street cop as you could get in the City. He was comfortable here; he found that troubling.
He saw his father first, his balding head high above the crowd, and then his mother beside him. They were talking with a banker named Finnerty and his wife, a looker maybe twenty years his junior. Westermann headed toward them. His father, Big Rolf Westermann, was a lawyer who only represented people of a certain class; the class Westermann himself been raised among. Big Rolf was successful because he was smart, relentless, and ruthless. He brought those same qualities to bear on his family.
Westermann’s mother caught sight of him as he weaved his way through the crowd. He edged past a woman, sleeved in a gold dress, who had been his father’s mistress. Maybe still was.
When he reached his mother, her eyes were bright from drink and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.
He shook his father’s hand. “Hi, Rolf.”
“Piet. So glad you came.”
His father smiled the same way he’d smiled at Westermann as an obedient ten-year-old. Westermann greeted the Finnertys, the wife holding his eyes for an extra beat. He took down the rest of his drink and looked at his mother, still beautiful but withering somehow. She was half in the bag and nattered at him about her concerns over his safety. He’d heard it before, repeated his usual empty assurances. His father continued his conversation with Finnerty. Westermann watched Big Rolf grow impatient with his wife’s incessant chatter in the background. A waiter came by. Westermann exchanged his empty glass for a full one. Mrs. Finnerty tried to catch his eye. His mother talked.
A judge named Asplundh joined the group along with his beautiful wife and even more beautiful daughter: dark eyes, dark hair, tall and slender, maybe twenty years old. They were introduced. Her name was Cora.
“I hear you’re a police officer.”
Westermann downed his drink, exchanged the empty for another.
He learned that she was at the Tech. He told her some cop stories, noticed Mrs. Finnerty still eyeing him, smiling conspiratorially when their eyes met.
Lenore, rotating slowly in the moonlit current.
Cora told him about her summer in Europe. The rest of the group had moved off a few feet to give them some privacy. Westermann flagged down another drink. Cora wasn’t drinking.
While she talked, Westermann watched a man he recognized approach his father, get his attention, then engage him in conversation, both men looking over at Westermann. Cora noticed his wandering attention and turned to see Big Rolf and the other man walking toward them.
Big Rolf made the introductions. “Cora Asplundh, this is Vic Truffant.”
Truffant kissed her hand.
“And I think you know my son, Piet.”
Westermann shook hands with Truffant. “When you were younger, Piet. Still in short pants.”
There’s a photo of me with Mel Washington.
Big Rolf turned to Cora. “Would you excuse us for a moment? I’ll make sure Piet finds you after we talk a little business.”
Cora looked to Westermann. He smiled and shrugged. She retreated to join her parents, who were still talking with his mother and the Finnertys. Westermann grabbed a drink from a passing waiter. He was drunk, feeling good.
Truffant said, “Let me get right to the point. I have a constituent … well, a friend … who says that you have been—and I want to be careful with what I say—but that you have been harassing him and his people about a crime that he has, to his knowledge, only the most tenuous connection.”
“Does your friend have a name?”
“Dr. Prosper Maddox.”
Westermann laughed. He was aware of his father’s gaze on him, an appraisal being made. There were expectations; but what were they? Stand up to Truffant? Show respect to his father’s contemporaries, his elders?
“What do you want from me, Mr. Truffant?”
“To think about why you want to pressure Dr. Maddox, who, it is my understanding, is truly peripheral to your investigation. Surely it’s not worth upsetting him and his congregation.”
“I’ve hardly pressured him.”
“That’s not his impression.”
Westermann laughed again, looking to his father. “Mr. Truffant, I asked Prosper Maddox for cooperation in a murder investigation. He declined.”
“The investigation of a murdered whore.”
Feeling very drunk, Westermann stared at Truffant.
Big Rolf said, “Just tell the boy what you want, Vic.”
Boy?
“Stay away from Dr. Maddox, Piet. A word to the wise.”
Westermann’s ears rang. He stared at Truffant murderously.
Big Rolf said, “Come on, Vic, you’ve told him what you wanted.”
Truffant extended his hand. Westermann didn’t even look at it.
Big Rolf was a couple of steps away now. Truffant leaned close, his lips inches from Westermann’s ear, whispering, “Don’t fuck with me, boy. I’ll take your head off. I don’t care who your father is.”
Westermann watched his father put his arm around Truffant’s shoulders, steering him toward Westermann’s mother and Judge Asplundh and his wife. Westermann watched Truffant kiss his mother on the cheek; kiss the judge’s wife on the cheek; shake the judge’s hand, leaning in to whisper something. He felt Cora’s eyes on him, turned to her, caught the questioning look across twenty feet. He had to get the hell out of there.
The cabbie was barking something at Westermann. He must have passed out on the ride; his head spun, his shirt was soaked with sweat.
“I said, which house?”
Westermann squinted at the block, not sure at first where he was. He didn’t remember giving the cabbie an address. But it became clear.
“Just go a half block down. Slow.”
The cabbie did as Westermann asked. They came to Morphy’s house and Westermann saw, almost to his relief, that the curtains were closed.
“Never mind,” he said, and gave the cabbie his address.
The cabbie turned to him. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”