The Dead Don't Talk Page 10
“The interviews aren’t free.”
A sigh.
“Okay. I know. What is it you want?”
“This is off the record.”
“I don’t like illegal, Danny.”
“You like interviews. I’m going to have ongoing access to the Governor.”
“I got that impression. At least Miles will.”
“I want you to check phone records. Every suspect in the Rabbi Siegel murder. You have a good eye. You look and tell me if something jumps out.”
“I...”
“Come on, Amanda. How many people do you know at the phone company?”
“It’s not that easy. They don’t want to get in trouble.”
“You promise them a favor if you need to, and then you call me.”
“All right. I guess I do owe you.”
She walked away.
I did my best not to listen to the speeches. I ignored the cheering and the applause.
Then I went into the hallway. There were some people there, though nobody to cause a security concern.
Everyone seemed very happy.
Meanwhile Rebecca Roth remained in jail. I was growing more and more unhappy. If Ari was right, somebody with bad intentions was following me. And I couldn’t find a single substantial bit of evidence about who killed Rabbi Siegel or who killed Bret Roth.
The failure of it all rolled over me like a giant wave.
Suddenly I felt as though I were a little boy without a guardian. It was getting dark and I was lost in the woods.
The world at that moment seemed very cruel. Worse, still, was that it seemed to be closing in on me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sometimes I think Luck is a faithful companion and sometimes I think Luck is a cruel and heartless enemy. Coincidence always interests me the way rhyming lines in a song do. They seem to fit together as though the world meant them to be that way.
I slept in the next morning when Flanagan called me.
He didn’t bother saying hello. His grunt informed me of his presence.
“A detective called me this morning.”
I tried to say, “What did he call you?” but it felt as though there was cotton in my mouth and throat so I made some sort of inarticulate sound.
“You want me to wait until you wake up?”
I cleared my throat. It didn’t work. I tried it again.
“I’m all right,” I croaked.
“I’m glad to hear it. You sound better than usual. The detective made an interesting discovery.”
A dozen lines went through my mind, but I kept quiet.
“I like you like this,” Flanagan said.
I growled.
“Anyway, when you do wake up, work on this. Our Nazi lover, Rolf Riefenstahl, goes around to different radio stations peddling conspiracy theories. Evidently there are enough people sitting at home or in their cars that find this either insightful or ridiculous or amusing. He tried UFOs last year, but that didn’t catch on. So now its Jewish international bankers who are planning to ruin our economy. I mean, he’s not even original in his stupidity.”
“What about him?”
“I’m building up to it, Ryle. Hang on.”
“Did he confess on the radio show?”
“No. But get this. The radio show was on the morning that Bret Roth was killed in his hardware store.”
“And?”
“You’re an impatient sort, aren’t you? The radio station is two blocks away from the store.”
The luck of coincidence.
“My goodness. Did your detective ask our Nazi about this little fact?”
“Why, yes he did. But the Nazi denied knowing Roth. Denied killing him. Denied that he went to the hardware store. If there was something to deny, he denied it.”
“We have a time of death. Can’t this be checked?”
“This is where it gets tricky. On the surface, according to the radio station, Riefenstahl was on the air in front of tens of listeners at the time Bret Roth was killed.”
“So why are you calling me?”
“Because while the detective is satisfied the Nazi didn’t do it, I’m not.”
“So what should I do?”
“You go talk to the radio people. See how sure they are. Check for time stamps on the program. Look at them in the face and see if they’re lying. See if they are even involved. The station plays a lot of nutty people. It’s sort of their signature. But the people who own and run it aren’t on any list of crazies. But maybe they just hide it well. That’s what you need to find out.”
“It sounds as though it’s a long shot.”
“It’s the only shot right now, Ryle.”
“Give me the address.”
I went in and washed my face. I ate some food, cereal that resembled cardboard and a cup of tea that tasted more like a cup of hot water.
I drove my car south and parked across the street from the radio station.
Then I walked inside. It was smaller than I expected. A woman at the reception desk said hello. She didn’t mean it. I had taken her away from a magazine filled with pictures of movie stars.
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” I said.
“You selling something? The manager doesn’t need anything right now.”
I showed her my Congressional identification.
“Can the Congressman come on our station?”
“Maybe. Can I please speak to the manager now?”
“Oh, sure. One minute.” She called another number. She produced a smile. It was a nice one. He’s in the office.” She pointed. “Room Number 2.”
I went there. The manager was middle-aged, in a losing battle with male pattern baldness, and sipping a bottle of soda while he ate cookies.
“Loretta up front said something about the Congressman. Miles. Can we book him?”
“Maybe. Today, I’m here for some information.”
His eyes narrowed.
“We don’t show our books to anyone.”
“This isn’t about money.”
He resumed breathing.
“What is it you want?”
“You had a guest on your show.” I told him the date and time. “Rolf Riefenstahl. Though that’s not his real name. He just uses it.”
He looked at me. “I hope you’re no friend or relative because that guy is a lunatic. For all I know a dangerous one.”
I held up my hands.
“You’ll get no argument from the Congressional office on that one. We want to know if he was here for the entire program. Did he arrive late? Did he leave early?”
The manager checked his records. Then he picked up the phone.
“Hi, Rocky. You recall that Nazi who was on here a couple of weeks ago? Good. Guy here. Real official. Trying to see if he was here the whole time. I don’t know, and I don’t want to ask. Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Rocky.”
“The guy was here long before the show began, stayed for the whole show, and stayed for a while afterwards. He’s trying to impress the girl in front, tell her about the glory days of the Third Reich, that kind of nonsense.”
“You’re sure?”
“If Rocky’s sure, then not only am I sure, but it’s the truth.”
Too bad.
“You look disappointed.”
“You bet I am. It would have been a pleasure to toss him in jail.”
“Sorry.”
I thanked him and left the radio station.
Ari was waiting in a car, so I walked over to him.
“I was just going to get you, Danny. There was a news bulletin. Rebecca Roth was stabbed in jail. The attacker wasn’t very good. It was just a surface wound, but it’s a big public case, so the reporters made a big deal about it. You should call Flanagan and see if maybe she can be moved.”
I just nodded.
“I’m going to get some coffee, Ari. You can follow me but don’t sit down with me.”
He was smart. He didn’t say a word.
My stomach felt as though it was churning.
I felt isolated and desperate. I couldn’t help Rebecca. I didn’t know who killed her father or Rabbi Siegel. I didn’t know much. I was good at knowing who didn’t do it, but that just kept Rebecca in jail. I knew there was a chance she would get stabbed again. The attacker had learned from the botched attempt. The next time might be more successful.
I closed my eyes hard. There was darkness. I felt the darkness surrounding me.
Fear and trembling, anxiety and powerlessness. These were my feelings.
Ari came in.
He was followed by Amanda, the Newsday reporter.
She was smiling.
Ari was nodding.
I took another bite of the doughnut and another swallow of coffee, paid the bill, gave the guy at the counter a generous tip, and walked with them.
“Interesting news,” Amanda whispered as we went outside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I’m trying to figure out what I can get from you,” Amanda said.
“I take it you have a confession in blood.”
“And if I did?”
“What have you got, Amanda?”
She pinched my cheek.
“You told me to check the suspects’ calls. This was, of course, entirely illegal, but considering the dinner you’re going to buy for me it was worth it. Mostly the calls weren’t very interesting. Until I got to Penny Larsen, the artist downstairs in the Siegel home.”
I nodded. “I didn’t know her last name. I’ve got to get better.”
“Aren’t you lucky you have someone so brilliant to guide you?”
“Brilliance to spare.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘brilliant and beautiful.’”
“I hesitate to give voice to the obvious.”
“Nice save, Danny.”
“So who did Penny call?”
“She made five calls to an art gallery in the city.”
“That’s not very surprising.”
“No. I suppose it’s not. And an ordinary reporter, say one who didn’t deserve a fabulous meal and a long night of dancing, would have stopped at that point.”
“How did the dancing sneak in there?”
“Wait. You’ll be happy to take me dancing.”
“Go ahead.”
“So I became curious about the gallery. I figured I should check who they called. I spent a lot of time on this, Danny. They called a bunch of artists including someone named Umberto who lived in Woodstock.”
“And this is important because?”
“Because Umberto of Woodstock was also a painter. There’s one additional fact about him.”
“What’s that, Amanda?”
“Umberto was killed by a hammer a month after Rabbi Siegel died.”
I thought for a moment.
“I’m going to need a list of painters who regularly called the gallery or were called by them.”
“Seriously? I never would have thought of that.”
She rolled her eyes. Then she reached into her purse, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to me. There was a list of names, addresses, and phone numbers.
I looked at Amanda and then glanced over the names. I didn’t recognize anyone on the list.
“Did you have time to check them to see if anyone else is no longer living?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have time for that. But I did get a lot of information about Umberto.”
“Did he do oil paintings?”
“What a strange question, Danny. Normally, I wouldn’t have asked that, but yes, all his paintings were in oil.”
“Good.”
“So what’s going on, Danny? I can’t figure it out.”
“That’s okay, Amanda. I’ll still take you to dinner and dancing. But I do know what’s going on.”
“You want to tell me?”
“I want to make sure I’m right first.”
I stood up.
“Let’s go, Ari. You’re driving. I need to think.”
Amanda and I said good-bye.
“Where are we headed, Danny?”
“Woodstock. But first we find an art supplies store.”
We found a store and I bought a palette knife, sandpaper, and turpentine.
Then we headed to artist country.
“Did you go to the Festival there? I wish I had gone.”
“No, Ari. I was driving around the country then.”
“Oh. I was hoping to hear stories.”
There was a lot of traffic, so it took some time for us to get there. Once we hit New York City, it still took another two hours and twenty minutes to reach Woodstock. I found a restaurant and went to the back. They had a phone. I called the number Amanda had listed for Umberto the artist.
A woman answered. I told her I was working for a Congressman and there was some unfinished business regarding a government grant involving a man who used to have this number. He was an artist named Umberto.
“I’m his wife,” the woman said. “Can I get that government grant?”
“I’d have to examine his paintings,” I said.
“All right, come over here.”
She gave me the address.
Again, I used my Congressional identification.
“This is my assistant from the Federal Arts Council,” I said. I didn’t know if there was a Federal Arts Council, but I thought it sounded convincing.
I went upstairs to a brightly-lit room.
I walked up to the painting on the easel.
“That’s the latest,” Umberto’s wife said.
“I’d like to be alone with it. I won’t harm it. It’s just how I work.” I made the saddest face I could. Acting lessons. That’s what I needed.
She just nodded and went out. After she’d gone, I said to Ari, “Wait outside the door. Keep her out.”
He left.
I looked at the paint, rubbed my hands over it. It wasn’t the least bit wet. Too bad. I would have dipped a piece of rag in turpentine if it hadn’t been completely dry. Unfortunately, I was utterly ignorant about paintings. I had no idea how long it took an oil painting to dry. Okay. I just needed an edge anyway. It would be the sandpaper. The art store guy said I should get a medium-smooth grain sandpaper after I told him what I was trying to do.
I started to scrape away the paint.
It didn’t take long.
I saw what was underneath.
That’s all it took.
I went out of the room. Ari and I found the woman.
“I am personally going to recommend that the grant be given to you, but, sadly, I’m not the one who makes decisions.”
“I sure could use the money.”
I smiled and nodded.
“Say, I have to fill out a whole report if you’re going to get the money. Could you tell me the circumstances of Umberto’s death?”
She shivered.
“It was horrible. I was out shopping. It was a Wednesday, which is always my shopping day. Anyway, while I was gone somebody came in here and killed the poor man. I’m going to call the killer a man even though we don’t really know who did it. Anyway, the man hit Umberto over the head again and again, maybe with a hammer, some instrument like that. The police said it was a hammer. Anyway, I screamed when I saw the blood all over my husband and the floor.”
Ari and I looked at each other. Rabbi Siegel had been shot, but Bret Roth and Umberto had been killed with a hammer.
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ve got enough for my report now.”
“When might I hear?”
“Oh, it takes time. Give it at least several months. That’s a bureaucracy for you.”
She nodded unhappily.
We said good-bye and left.
By the time we got to New York, it was too late to go to
the art expert at NYU who had agreed to speak with me.
We stayed at a hotel in the city. Ari wanted to see a Broadway play that night, but I told him I was too tired. He went out. I have no idea what he did, but he came back late looking very happy.
“This is the Tel Aviv of the U.S.,” he said. “A great city.”
I vaguely heard him and then I was asleep.
I didn’t know exactly where we were going, but I knew we were getting closer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ari was up early. He went for a run in Central Park. I went for an English muffin in a coffee shop.
I called the professor at NYU who said he would meet us at eleven. Then I called Janet at the office.
“Ennis is spitting fire, Danny. I’m pretty sure I saw smoke coming out of his ears. He wants to know where you are and whether or not you care if the Congressman wins the election.”
“Put him on, Janet.”
“Are you sure? It would be better if you say you’ve been arrested and are at Rikers.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Janet went to get Ennis.
“Mr. Ryle. I was counting on your being dead. That, at least, would have been an acceptable excuse for your not being here.”
“Mr. Ennis. I’ve been working with Amanda, the political reporter from Newsday. We’re going to get some extraordinary coverage. Do you want me answering calls and stuffing envelopes or do you want me shaping how the public sees us in the media?”
“I want you to do what I tell you to do. Otherwise, I swear, I will fire you the day after the election.”
“We all do our own parts in our own way, Mr. Ennis. I’m almost done working with her.”
“This better be good, Mr. Ryle. Tell me you’ve got some dirt on Ken Lucey.”
“It’s the same as I told you. I haven’t found any stuff yet, Mr. Ennis, but I can’t look if I’m stuck behind a desk.”
“What good are you if you can’t find what we need, Mr. Ryle?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That, Mr. Ryle, is hardly reassuring.”
“Mr. Ennis, I can either stand here while you continue to mock me, or I can go and try to help the Congressman win.”