Perspiration beaded on Toni’s forehead and upper lip. She had seen the murderer. Every detail of that evening came back to her, everything they’d said and done, every pose. Especially the final moment when someone stood on the walkway under the billboard across the street and shot Craig through the open window.
She must telephone Michael. She felt certain he would conclude, as she had, that the killer fired the gun from the billboard across the street. On the other hand, Detective Devine was liable to chalk it up to some kind of fantasy, and she’d just waste a lot of time. After she spoke with Michael, he could call Devine and deal with him.
Yet now she only knew how it had been done, not who had done it. The figure she’d seen could have been a man or a woman with her hair tucked under the cap. Her vision eliminated neither Leo nor Janet, although unless her mind was playing tricks on her again it seemed to her the figure was taller than Janet and thinner than Leo.
She’d already decided Janet had a strong motive to get rid of her, but she still had no idea why Leo hated her. Either one could easily have hired someone else to do it. Both had more than enough money, and Leo probably had underworld contacts.
Another thought: Kristianna?
The model fit both particulars. She was tall and slender as a reed. The dark jacket could easily have hidden her pregnancy, which was in its early stages. Yet, why would she kill Craig? Had he been planning to abandon her and the baby? Suzanne’s murder made sense then. With Craig’s wife dead, Kristianna’s child stood a better chance of inheriting his estate. Perhaps Michael’s investigator could find out if the model knew anything about guns. Even though Craig had taken Toni to a building fronting one of the narrower lower Manhattan streets, Kristianna would have had to be a sharpshooter to hit Craig.
Wait a minute. What about Victor Marino? If anyone had a familiarity with firearms, it was he. Hadn’t he used one while committing the robbery that sent him to prison?
Or Ted Flax. He’d served with the Marines and surely knew his way around weapons. He and Craig might have had a falling out. Over what, money, prestige? Ted was vastly overshadowed by Craig. In addition, there was the business. With Craig out of the way, would Ted become sole owner? Fulfilling Craig’s remaining contracts could easily provide entree into the modeling agencies that had hired Ted’s partner. Why continue settling for less than half the apple when the entire fruit was there for the plucking?
All these contradictory images spun through Toni’s mind. She had seen the murderer, and whether or not he or she knew that fact, it had put her life in danger.
The bed confined her like a satin-lined prison. She had to tell Michael what she knew. It would only take a few minutes to get to her cellphone and call him. Without a watch, she had no idea of the time, but it must be late, and she was too anxious to wait until Leo wrapped for the day. She pushed aside the outer covers and swung her legs over the side.
Noises came from the adjoining set. Before she had a chance to slip out of the bed, a camera rolled back into position beside her. Luke and Lane Winston took up their positions in the doorway. The lights came up.
She lay back down, but before she closed her eyes again, she saw Leo’s face, dark and angry. His eyes bored into her like steel rods. She felt as if she could read his mind behind the heavy lids of those eyes. Leo wanted her dead.
* * *
When he phoned the precinct, Michael found Detective Devine had taken a dinner break. Neither he nor Toni had had any contact with the detective since Toni found Suzanne Landis’s body. Someone had lured her to the house to frame her for the murder. In addition, Gil had just assured him his theory was reasonable. That Landis or Flax, or both, were connected to jewel robberies in the homes of wealthy people whose names appeared on Rolodex cards in the studio. Was Devine aware of that? Was he investigating it?
Michael caught up with him at Sol’s Deli on Varrick Street. The detective had just begun to attack a corned beef on rye half as thick as the Manhattan telephone directory, along with coleslaw and a plump kosher pickle.
“This is strictly off the record, Counselor. The only reason I’m telling you is that it’s possible your client had two attempts made on her life since Landis bought it.”
“I appreciate it,” Michael said.
“We heard from a snitch who drops us information from time to time. It seems there’s talk on the street that Flax has a cozy arrangement with a con named Raphael Cortinez. This Cortinez is a second-story man who’s hard to pin down. He’s good at bypassing even the most sophisticated alarm systems and even better at avoiding detection. If we could get the goods on him, he might have a rap sheet longer than one of those salamis up there.”
Michael followed the detective’s gaze across the crowded deli to where rows of salami, the ends of their whitish skins bound in cord, hung on hooks behind the counter.
“He and Flax served in the same Marine outfit for two years. Enough time to get chummy and set career goals, if you get my drift.”
Michael nodded. “And three of the names on Flax’s Rolodex belong to people whose homes he photographed and which were later burglarized.”
“We think we can connect him to at least four burglaries over a period of six and a half years.” The detective took a healthy bite out of his sandwich. He chewed for a long while before swallowing.
Finally, when Michael had begun to wonder if that was all he intended to divulge, Devine said, “What we’re piecing together is that Flax probably wasn’t photographing only the furniture. He must’ve made it his business to get some pretty good shots of the alarm systems inside the houses.” The detective took another bite of his sandwich before continuing, “Most likely the safes, too. You have to assume it took him a while to get all the equipment set up. He has to go from room to room.”
While Devine chewed, Michael picked up the thread of his story. “He’s an artist with the lens. He needs the right light, the perfect composition.”
“Right.” The detective shrugged. “Who’s going to trail along behind him, looking over his shoulder? The guy’s a professional, for God’s sake. His work appears in all those la-de-da magazines. You going to insult him by putting the butler on his tail?”
A waitress who looked as if she’d served the first sandwich when Sol’s opened thirty-five years earlier put down a cup of coffee in front of Michael. When she left, he took a sip and said, “What about Landis? Did he have any connection with the burglaries?”
“We don’t know yet.” Devine licked a splotch of mustard off his pinky. “Our snitch never mentioned his name. Only the partner. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Maybe he and Flax had some kind of falling out. Or one of them got greedy.”
“Or,” Michael leaned closer to the table, “Landis initially knew nothing about his partner’s little sideline and only found out about it later, accidentally. Maybe Flax killed Landis to keep him quiet.”
“Maybe.” The detective pushed the end of the pickle into his mouth and signaled for the check.
“Or Landis found out and demanded to be cut in.”
“Blackmail. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“Everything is speculation until we talk to Cortinez.” Devine reached into his pocket for his billfold.
“What about the wife, Suzanne Landis? How does her murder fit into this?”
“What do you think?”
Michael sipped at the cooling coffee. “Maybe her husband made the mistake of telling her, and Flax—or Cortinez—couldn’t take the chance she’d talk.”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe she wasn’t a very bright lady. Maybe she found out about the scam and tried to cut herself in.”
“That’s what I was thinking. How stupid.”
“They never think the other guy is dangerous.” He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet.
“Is Victor Marino in the clear, then?”
“Yeah. We finally caught up with him. He was in a poolroom until two in the morning the night Landis was killed. At least ten witnesses placed him there.”
Michael asked another question. “What about my client?”
“I told you before. She’s still a suspect. Just because we haven’t found a connection yet doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.”
“But someone’s trying to kill her.”
“I grant you that, but we still don’t know why. Maybe, like Landis and his wife, she knows too much or is into the blackmail thing.”
“There are at least two other possibilities.” Michael raised his fingers. “One, she saw the murder committed and blocked it from her memory.”
“Yeah, yeah, so the murderer has to kill her before she recovers. We talked about all that.”
“Or else she was the original target.”
“Which makes it another case entirely. But I don’t think so. Your client knows all these people, and I’m convinced that’s the connection.”
“She’s in more danger than you’re willing to admit. I tell you, she needs protection.”
“Don’t we all? I don’t have enough surveillance people as it is. Tell you what. We’re looking for Cortinez right now. When we pick him up, we’re going to lean on him real hard. He’s not gonna want to take the fall. He fingers Flax and we’ll put a man on your client until we get Flax into custody.”
“How long do you think it will take to find this Cortinez?”
“We know where he lives and the places he frequents. A day at the most.”
“That’s not good enough. Miss Abbott is in danger right now.” That was the problem with the system: unless a crime actually occurred, little could be done. If Toni were killed, they’d snap into action to solve it, but stalking and so-called accidents weren’t sufficient motivation.
“I wish I could help you, Counselor. Give me something positive.” Devine got up, threw his crumpled paper napkin onto the table, and walked toward the line in front of the cash register.
Michael looked at his watch. Toni should be home by now. He pulled his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and pressed her number. After four rings, voicemail clicked in, and he didn’t bother to identify himself. “Toni,” he said, “call me as soon as you get this. Lock your doors and don’t let anyone in but me.”
Next he pressed the digit for his office, but Peggy reported Toni had not called there.
He had one last place to try. Pulling a slip of paper from his wallet, he studied the number Toni had given him for the studio telephone. He punched the buttons harder than necessary.