THE “GOOD-LOOKING MILF” WAS SITTING IN THE SMALL bakery across Mott Street from the Chinese laundry, watching the door leading up to the office of T. X. Investigations Inc., when four men emerged. Three moved with military precision around a fourth—the one in the lead signaling to a dark sedan down the block, while the other two scanned the street and kept control of the man in the middle.
Marlene assumed from the description she’d received from Sherry Maxwell that the fourth man was Todd Fielding. Thinning blond hair. Paunch. He looked around, frightened, as he shambled down the sidewalk toward the approaching sedan, holding a towel around his left hand.
Frightened with good reason, Marlene thought. The man in the lead was a professional killer; she’d recognized him from the photos Sherry Maxwell had given her. Hello, Mr. Williams. Are we doing a little investment banking today? she mused as he got in the front passenger side of the car while Fielding was shoved into the back between the “muscle.”
“Excuse me? Did you need more coffee?” asked a waiter near the door.
Marlene smiled. “I do, but I’ve got to run.”
After the sedan pulled away, Marlene hurried across Mott, digging into her purse and removing a small black case that contained various picks and other burglary tools. If Butch knew I still had this, she thought with a twinge of guilt, he’d flip. One of those things best left out of pillow talk for a peaceful marriage.
Reaching the door, she picked the lock in less than fifteen seconds and headed up the stairs. She replaced the burglary kit and pulled out a small .380 Beretta instead. Another one of those things best left in the dark.
The door at the top of the stairs was ajar. With the gun held out in a two-handed stance, she moved swiftly into the room. Seeing that there was no one else present, she relaxed until she looked at the wooden office chair. There were remnants of duct tape still attached to the arms and legs, where it had apparently been used to secure Todd Fielding. But it was the pool of blood beneath the left arm that caught her attention, particularly when closer inspection revealed that the red lump in the middle was the tip of a human finger.
Marlene guessed that Fielding, who did not seem the strong, silent type, had told them everything they wanted to know. She wondered why Williams hadn’t simply killed him. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time the police had come across a sleazy private eye who’d been executed by an angry husband. Then it came to her that Fielding might have told them everything, but it was possible that he still had something they wanted.
She swore. Fielding was the witness who could clear Warren and convict Jim Williams. She still had the photographs from Sherry, but without the corroboration of the photographer, it could be dicey. The photographs weren’t the best quality, and maybe Chin, or eventually a defense attorney, could claim they were doctored. But she wouldn’t have stood a chance against the four men on the street, and she had no idea where they’d taken him. She’d have to hope that they kept him alive for a reason that would last a while longer.
Think, Marlene, you’ve got to do this right. Suddenly, a plan began to coalesce in her head, and implementing it began with a series of telephone calls.
The first was to Sherry Maxwell. If Fielding had talked, he would have told them who hired him.
“This is Marlene,” she said when the other woman answered. She described what she’d seen and what it meant. “Get out of the apartment now. He could be on his way. . . . No, Sherry, he is not an investment banker. He is a killer, and he’s not going to be happy that you had him followed to a murder scene. . . . Sherry, I need you to stop crying and move. . . . Take a taxi back to Saks, then walk through the store and catch another taxi. Take it to the corner of Grand and Crosby. I’ll meet you there. No, there’s no time to pack. . . . Okay, grab the jewelry, but then you’ve got to go!”
Marlene hung up and shook her head. It was all falling into place. After meeting Sherry, she’d gone back to Warren’s apartment and, identifying herself as Warren’s attorney, persuaded the building manager to let her in to feed the cat and birds. While Brando was busy eating, she’d carefully looked around the apartment again. She’d jumped at the sound of a voice behind her.
“How’s Warren?” asked the building manager, who’d appeared in the doorway.
Marlene had calmed herself and replied. “He’s in a tough spot right now, but I think he’s going to be okay.”
“Did he do it?”
“No. He didn’t do it, but we’ve got some things to do to prove it.”
The manager had nodded. “I’d hate to lose him,” he’d said. “Always paid his rent on time. Nice and quiet. Didn’t complain much . . . and you sort of get used to the mouth.” He’d turned to go but then remembered something and held out a small bundle of mail. “This is everything that’s arrived since his arrest. Would you give it to him, please?”
Marlene had accepted the mail. I’ll have a quick look to make sure no bills have arrived, she thought to herself. But I’ll leave most of it here for Warren to look at when he gets out.
The manager had left, and Marlene had laid the bundle on the kitchen counter and quickly gone through it. She hadn’t seen anything that seemed to need immediate attention until, near the bottom, she’d come to a small padded envelope. It appeared to be the size and shape of a DVD, so at first she’d assumed it could be a new film he’d ordered. But then she’d looked at the addresses on the front.
It had been addressed to Rick Blaine, and the return address said it had been sent by Ilsa Lund. Why are those names familiar? She’d looked up at a poster from the movie Casablanca, starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. As Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund. She’d smiled. That was a nice touch, Michelle. Now let’s see what you sent Warren.
Marlene had slit open the package with a kitchen knife, and a small key attached to a note had fallen out. She’d recognized it as a locker key; it had a number on it but nothing else, and there wasn’t anything in the note that told her where the locker might be located. All the note said was: “Answer my question.”
“Answer my question.” What question? Marlene had asked herself as she left the apartment and hailed a taxi. When it dawned on her what Michelle was saying, she’d called her husband. He’d said he was just walking to the elevator to return to the courtroom for the Jabbar trial.
“We spent the morning on an ‘offer of proof’ hearing for Dean Newbury,” he’d said. “Now we’ll finally get him in front of a jury.”
“Go get him, tiger,” Marlene had replied. “But first, do you happen to remember that movie-trivia question Warren asked right before he was arrested?”
“Yeah, funny you should ask,” he’d said. “I woke up the other night thinking about it. ‘The key goes where the book editor sees his wife and son off to Maine.’ That was a tough one.”
“You solved it?” Marlene had practically shouted.
“Well, sort of,” Butch had responded. “I think the part about ‘where the book editor sees his wife and son off to Maine’ is a reference to The Seven Year Itch, starring Marilyn Monroe with Tom Ewell as Richard Sherman the book editor.”
“And?”
“And it’s a reference to the place where Sherman put his wife and son on a train for their summer vacation in Maine.”
“And?”
“The train left Penn Station. But the part I don’t get is the reference to a key going to Penn Station.”
Marlene had laughed. “I do. Thanks, baby. I’ll explain when I get home. I’ve got to go see a man about some photographs.”
The next stop had been Mott Street and T. X. Fielding Investigations. However, Todd Fielding had seemed to be otherwise engaged, shouting, “Sorry, love, I’m a . . . I’m preoccupied!”
Her first thought had been that Fielding was “entertaining” some other poor woman who had fallen for his shtick. She’d trotted across Mott, intending to walk the few blocks over to Grand and Crosby, where her loft and, she hoped, Sherry Maxwell waited. She’d make sure the young woman was safely inside and return for Fielding.
At the sidewalk on the other side, however, Marlene had pulled up short. Something didn’t make sense. This guy Fielding thinks he has a knockout like Sherry coming to jump his bones and go in with him on a half-million dollars in blackmail money. And instead he’s boinking some Village housewife? I don’t think so.
Marlene had slipped into the bakery to see who came out of the door across the street. She’d intended to call Sherry and tell her she’d been delayed and to wait. But first, she’d needed to make another call.
Now, glancing one more time at the fingertip lying in the pool of blood, Marlene punched in the number. “Hey, cousin,” she said when Sergeant Bobby Scalia answered. “Can you meet me at Penn Station ASAP? It’s important. . . . Love you, too. Ciao.”