When I got home my phone was ringing. It was Shukey.
“I got your message, luv, and I’ve been trying to reach you. What’s up?”
“I was out,” was all I told her.
“What’s the story?” she asked again.
“I need your special talents again,” I told her, trying to get the order of business straight in my mind again.
“I’m going to start to get the feeling that you only look at me as some kind of sex object, luv,” she complained, kiddingly.
“Let’s not get personal. Here’s what I want. Lassiter has clammed up on me,” I explained. “My own fault; I blew it.”
“How?”
“We got into a tussle.”
“That’s not like you, Hank,” she scolded.
“Don’t I know that?”
“You want me to go to work on Lassiter?”
“Yeah, find out what he knows about either Penny Hopkins or Eddie Mapes.”
“How about a hot tip on a horse?”
“I don’t bet horses or hot tips, you know that. Just do a number on him, okay?”
“Okay, but don’t let this get to be a habit. I’m an investigator, remember, not a hooker?”
“And you’re a good investigator, too.”
“Why, thank you, Henry.”
“You’re welcome. Listen, Shuke, be careful, huh?”
“Why? What do you know that I don’t know?”
“Well, Lassiter is not quite the ladies’ man he would like everyone to think he is. It seems he gets his kicks, uh, in a very different way than most men. He doesn’t — actually, he’s unable to have sex with the, so hem …”
“He what, Henry?” she prodded, sounding very much like a lady who knows she’s been had.
“He, uh, beats them up.”
“Oh, thanks a lot, Henry, my love. Just what I needed.”
“Keep in touch, Shuke — and be careful, huh?”
“I will, Henry. You owe me for this one.”
“I’ll pay, I’ll pay,” I promised.
“Through the nose, chump,” she said, and hung up.
No, Shuke, I thought, you’re not a hooker. I’m the one who used sex to get information out of Lisa Lassiter.
Or was she the one who had used sex on me to get what she wanted?
Well, whichever way it went, I didn’t feel good about it. It had been nice — in fact, it had been fabulous — but done for all the wrong reasons. As much as I disliked Paul Lassiter, no man should be cuckolded in his own home, in his own bed.
I called the offices of Manhattan South Homicide and asked for Detective Diver or Stapleton.
“I’m sorry,” the officer who answered told me, “they’ve both gone home for the day.”
“Okay, I know you can’t give me their numbers, so would you have Diver call me back? My name’s Henry Po,” I told him, and gave him my number.
Fifteen minutes later, as I was popping a frozen chicken dinner into the oven, Diver called.
“I’ve be been trying to track you down all day,” he told me.
“What for?”
“Aiello’s been sprung. His lawyer showed up and we had to let him go.”
“His lawyer? How did they find out where he was? Did you give him a call?”
“No way. We were stalling, but his shyster showed up and we had to cut him loose. Besides, he was never really under arrest. We didn’t have to give him a phone call.”
“Well, did you find out anything else from him?”
“We didn’t have time. He stuck to his story for as long as we had him, then Perry Mason showed,” he said disgustedly. “Did you tell anyone we had him?”
Damnit, I had.
During the go-round with Lassiter I had shot my mouth off about the cops having Aiello.
“Lassiter,” I said, contritely.
“That wasn’t too smart,” he said, sounding very disappointed with me, but not belaboring the point. “Was he the only one?”
“That’s it. It must’ve been him, which means he knows a lot more than he’s telling.”
“Not necessarily, Henry Suppose the kid just rides for him and Lassiter went for the lawyer simply because of their track association. He could claim that and we wouldn’t be able to prove otherwise.”
“Shit! We’ll never find Aiello now.”
“Maybe not,” he disagreed again. “Why can’t he just go back to what he was doing, riding horses? We really don’t have anything on him but the admitted harassment of Eddie Mapes, who is dead and in no position to complain. Look, Henry, my old lady has dinner waiting. Keep in touch, okay?”
“Okay, Jim. See ya.”
Lassiter was beginning to look more and more involved. According to his wife, he was violent and now, apparently, he’d arranged for Aiello to be released from police custody.
Damn, I realized that I had forgotten to ask Diver about Penny’s condition. Had she been beaten before being shot?
Then again, Diver might not have been the one to ask, anyway. Jackson, of the Staten Island Homicide Squad was.
I called his office, and he was in.
“Yes, Mr. Po. What can I do for you?” he asked after we’d been connected.
“Detective Jackson, has Diver, at Manhattan South, mentioned that I’ve been cooperating with him, and vice versa, in his investigation into the Mapes killing?”
“He’s mentioned you, yes,” Jackson answered.
“Then you might have no objection to giving me some information concerning Penny Hopkins’ death?”
“Actually, Mr. Po, after your performance with Benjamin Hopkins, I can’t say I’m too impressed with you,” he informed me.
“I can understand that,” I told him. “I was kind of surprised myself. I’m usually not given to that kind of a display, but I have to admit an intense dislike of the man. He had no love for his daughter at all — ”
“I’ve made my own evaluation of him, Po. We both agree, he’s a prick. Okay, go ahead, what do you need?”
“I want to know the condition of her body,” I told him.
He hesitated and I heard the shuffling of papers.
“I don’t see why not,” he conceded. “There was a certain degree of decomposition. It was pretty hot out in that meadow — ”
“All I really need, Detective Jackson — ”
“Since we’re cooperating, Mr. Po, I guess you might as well call me George.”
“Okay, George. What I really need to know is, had she been beaten before she was killed?” Then I thought of something else. “Also, could the wound have been self-inflicted?”
“Wait a second,” he told me, and I heard more shuffling as he scanned the autopsy report. “No, there’s no mention of either in the report. We thought of the suicide possibility, but it was no go.”
“Has the cause of death definitely been called the gunshot wound?”
“Yes, that’s definite. What’s this about a beating?”
“Just a hunch I had. I found out that a man she knew likes to beat up his women. I thought perhaps, had she been beaten — ”
“What’s this man’s name?”
“It really doesn’t matter now, does it, George? She wasn’t beaten, so the hunch didn’t pay off. Thanks a lot, goodbye.”
“Po, wait a sec — ” he began, but I hung up very quickly.
I left my apartment before he could call me back.