17

 

 

I called Mary Jane from my luxury suite. It had a big queen-size bed with a canopy, a seating section with a sofa and two chairs and a 48-inch flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, a small kitchenette with a fridge, microwave and coffee maker, a luxurious bathroom and a balcony overlooking the Hudson River valley. My balcony had a hot tub on one end, water bubbling away with wisps of steam rising into the chilly air of evening. Had I been there with Mary Jane and a bottle of chilled Taittinger’s, I could have envisioned some fun possibilities. Alone, I dialed my phone, fully clothed and mostly sober.

“What’s your opinion of hot tubs?” I asked when we connected.

“Generally good,” she said, “Even though they have a reputation for spreading disease.”

“How about chilled Taittinger’s?”

“Again, good, although I’ve always preferred a good Dom Perignon. Why these interesting questions?”

“There’s a hot tub on my balcony,” I said. “I’m looking at it and was envisioning being in it with you.”

“Aww,” she said. “How sweet.”

“My visions were more carnal than sweet, I think.”

“I should certainly hope so,” she said. “Did you win?”

“Win what?”

“I don’t know…I assumed there was some kind of match today and that means someone won and someone lost. Which was it?”

“I guess I won,” I said. “But he was into it more than I was. We just had a fabulous Conrad Gold dinner and then got some bad news.”

“Oh, no …one of you had to pick up the tab?” she said. I could hear the hint of mischievousness in her voice.

“Ha ha,” I said. “No, we found out that Arnie Wasserman was shot and killed this afternoon down in New York.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Who was Arnie Wasserman and has anyone blamed you yet?”

“Not so far as I can tell,” I said. “He was Ben Oswald’s aide-de-camp. Or go-fer. He did all the dirty work.”

“So, he was the Assassin’s assassin?”

I smiled. “Pretty good,” I said. “Yeah, he was.”

“Well, from what you tell me about Oswald, that means there’s probably a long list of potential suspects,” she said. “Not including you, I hope.”

“I think I’m off the hook,” I said. “After all, I was here playing golf all afternoon. I’ve got witnesses to the witnesses of my alibi.”

“Thank goodness for that,” she said. “So who killed him, if it wasn’t you?”

“They think it was a mugger,” I said. “Still haven’t caught the guy. Seems to be one of those random Big City things. Kinda tragic.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear it,” Mary Jane said. “Is this going to affect your job in any way?”

“Don’t think so,” I said. “I’m sure IBS will have someone new ready to insert into place in a day or two. Like Conrad said at dinner a while ago, ‘No one is indispensable.’”

“Conrad?”

“Conrad Gold,” I said. “He owns this place. Came up to have dinner with us.”

“I can’t believe you are sitting around talking with someone like Conrad Gold,” Mary Jane said. “I mean, I see him on television all the time. He’s always on one of the gossip shows. Stepping out with some scrumptious starlet or other. And he’s always on the front page of the National Enquirer.”

“You read the National Enquirer?”

“Only waiting in line at the supermarket checkout,” she said. “Don’t think I’ve ever actually purchased one. Conrad Gold seems to be one of the tabloids’ go-to guys.”

“I’m beginning to think he uses them as much as they seem to use him,” I said. “He keeps his name in the public arena with his outrageous political comments and his dating habits. But that makes him famous for being famous, which I think he uses to his advantage in selling real estate at places like this. You know, if I buy a place at Conrad Gold’s development, maybe there will be scrumptious starlets and other famous people hanging around. He actually strikes me as a pretty intelligent guy.”

“Well, if he’s turned dating scrumptious starlets into making millions of bucks, I guess one has to tip their hat,” Mary Jane said. “Even though most of us non-starlets hate him.”

“Once you get to know him, he’s not all that hate-able,” I said.

“Whatever,” she said. “I’ve got some tests to grade. When are you coming home?”

“I’ll head home after breakfast,” I said. “Should be there when you get home from work.”

“Excellent,” she said. “We have leftover tuna noodle casserole. I made a big batch tonight.”

“I had roast duckling tonight, so that actually sounds pretty good,” I said.

“Roast duckling with Conrad Gold,” she said. “Are you beginning to see why so many of us hate the man?”

We rang off. I looked at the empty hot tub, bubbling away on my balcony. But I turned away, and instead got ready for bed. No Taittingers.

 

In the morning, before I went downstairs in search of breakfast, I put in a call to Delbert Connor of the Savannah PD. I was a little surprised when he picked up the call. It was just before 8 a.m.

“Ah, yes, Mister Hacker,” he said when I identified myself, “The case of the dead golf announcer.”

“Right,” I said. “I was just wondering if you’ve been able to pinpoint a cause of death for Parker Long? I know you were running a battery of tests.”

I heard him shuffling some papers around on his desk.

“Yes,” he said, “Here it is. The preliminary coroner’s report came in about three days ago. It shows that Mr. Long was electrocuted.”

“How?”

“That particular data point is not clear at this moment,” Connor said. “Our investigation continues.”

“Of course it does,” I said. “Do you have any theories at least? How it happened that an announcer on a live TV broadcast could suddenly find himself zapped into oblivion?”

He paused. “Is there a reason why you are asking?” he said.

“Besides the fact that Parker was a friend and a colleague?” I asked. I figured he wouldn’t know that I really didn’t know Parker Long that well at all.

“And a member of a national broadcast media operation,” he said dryly. “Perhaps looking for a scoop that will let out the news of this case before we are ready to release any.”

“Oh, that,” I said. “Well, yeah, there’s another reason.”

“Thought there might be,” he said.

“Another member of our broadcast crew was shot and killed yesterday in Manhattan,” I said.

“I’ve heard New York is a dangerous place,” Connor said. “But my condolences nevertheless. What happened?”

“Apparently he was confronted and shot on the street,” I said. “Assailant unknown, at least as far as I know.”

“Where did this happen?” Connor asked.

“Upper West Side,” I said. “I heard it was in or near the Fairway Market on Broadway.”

I heard him scribbling notes.

“I know a few of the guys in NYPD,” he said. “I’ll give them a call later this morning and see what I can learn.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

“You know the old saying,” Connor said. “Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action. Except for one thing.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence.”

“How did you know that?” he asked.

“You’re a cop,” I said. “No cop believes in coincidence. It’s against your religion or something.”

“Furthermore, I don’t know exactly why my victim died, whether it was an accident, an act of God or a violent attack,” he said. “So I don’t know what kind of connection you think there might be between my incident and the one in New York. But I’ll call and ask. All I can do at this point.”

“Right,” I said. “I understand.” I paused for a bit, thinking. “Did you ever figure out what that smell was? The burning smell? We both noticed it.”

“I can only surmise that the burning smell was somehow related to the electrocution,” he said. “I’ve sent all the electronics equipment we impounded up to the state crime lab in Atlanta. Those guys are pretty good, but it’ll take another couple of weeks before we hear from them.”

“OK,” I said. “Will you call me when you learn something?”

“Probably not,” he said.

“If I call you back, will you talk to me?”

“I’m a public servant,” he said. “Our goal is to serve and protect.”

I figured that was as good as I was going to get from Delbert, so I thanked him and hung up.