An Accidental Corpse Page 7

  “The right side of Kligman’s face was badly abraded,” Nita continued, “but when I found her, there were no injuries on the left side. Apparently she was thrown clear of the car and landed on the road, hitting her head on the right side. Dr. Abel can confirm the extent of her other injuries. Dr. Cooper said that Pollock’s head wounds were also on the right side. Maybe we can see his autopsy report as well.”

  “He may not be finished yet. I’ll ask Fred to call Yardley and Williams and find out.” Steele used the intercom again. While they waited, Nita decided to set him straight on her rank and title.

  “You were right about my being a detective,” she told him. “I won promotion five years ago. As you can guess, there aren’t many female detectives in the NYPD, but I had a wonderful mentor who encouraged me. Hector Morales, the super sleuth of the Twenty-third Precinct. They call him El Zorro, you know what that means?” More than a year before the ABC television show of that name began to air, the Spanish term was far from common knowledge, and Steele confessed his ignorance.

  “It means ‘the fox,’ and it’s a well-deserved nickname, believe me. His investigative work was crucial to solving the case that brought me and Fitz together back in ’forty-­three. He’s an inspector now, still based in Spanish Harlem. In some ways the Bonackers remind me of that community—tight-knit, family-oriented, proud of their heritage, hard for outsiders to penetrate. Add to that the language barrier, and you can see how important it is to have local people of all ranks on the force.”

  She paused, striving to be diplomatic. “That’s why I’ve chosen to keep my maiden name. Off duty I’m proud to be Mrs. Brian Fitzgerald, but when I’m on duty it’s Detective Juanita Diaz, though I’d be pleased if you’d call me Nita.”

  Steele broke out in a broad grin, reached for her hand, and shook it vigorously. “Well, well, I’m glad to know you, Detective Juanita Diaz! I’ll be happy to call you Nita if you’ll call me Harry.”

  Nita’s satisfaction was interrupted by the intercom.

  “The doc has finished with Pollock,” Fred told them. “If you want to go over there he’ll give you the results in person.”

  Over there was little more than a crosstown block away, at the other end of Newtown Lane, so Nita, Fitz, and Steele decided not to bother with the car.

  “Got pretty much everything we need right here on this street,” observed Steele as they strolled west toward the train station. “Dreesen’s Excelsior Market for food, Parsons Electric for an icebox to put it in, Diamond’s Department Store for a table to eat it off, Dakers’ Wines and Spirits for something to wash it down with, Vetault’s flower shop to decorate the table, and Halsey’s Garage for a Dodge truck to run it all home in. Oh, and East End Hardware for the garbage pail. And if you’d rather eat out, there’s Sam’s.”

  “And when you’ve had your last meal,” quipped Fitz, “Yardley and Williams will take care of the remains.” That got a belly laugh out of Steele, and a loud giggle out of Nita.

  “Pollock used to bend an elbow at Sam’s,” Steele told them. “One night a couple years ago, when he’d had one too many—no, make that a few too many—and was causing a ruckus, Sam Nasca kicked him out. Pollock got sore and threw a rock through the front window. When he sobered up he was so apologetic, said he’d pay for the damage, and Sam said Damn right you will!

  “Spent plenty of time in Cavagnaro’s, too,” Steele continued. “Up ahead on the other side of Pleasant Lane, opposite the funeral parlor. Albie Cavagnaro told me he stopped in yesterday morning for an eye-opener, on his way to meet the 11:04 from the city. Kind of ironic. He started the day there, and ended it just across the street.”

  Carolyn Williams admitted the trio and escorted them down to the basement, where Dr. Cooper was waiting.

  “Thanks for coming by,” he said. “I haven’t written up the results yet, and I’m afraid that’ll have to wait. I have to get over to Southampton. There was a major accident there last night, outside the Scotch Mist Inn. Head-on collision, eight dead and one critical. Lots of autopsies lined up, so they need all the medics they can get. Another case of drunk driving. This county’s record is a disgrace—we really need to step up the safe driving campaign. Anyway, let me fill you in on the Pollock autopsy.” He motioned them to chairs.

  “Pollock sustained a compound skull fracture causing severe brain lacerations. He also had lacerated lungs and bleeding into the chest cavity caused by a collapsed rib cage. Either of those injuries would have been fatal. They were sustained when his body slammed into the oak tree where you found him, Captain Fitzgerald. He was catapulted out of the car and thrown against the tree. If he’d missed it, he might have survived, but not for long. He was suffering from advanced cirrhosis of the liver, with resultant edema and jaundice. Not a good prognosis, but that’s moot now.”

  “Were there any scratches on the left side of his face or neck?” asked Steele.

  “I know what you’re getting at, but no, the left side was unmarked. If Metzger scratched her killer on the left face or neck, it wasn’t Pollock. All the visible damage was on the right side of his head, and on his right torso, which was covered by his shirt. There was very little external bleeding—the fatal injuries were internal.”

  Nineteen.

  Saturday, August 11

  By eight thirty the sun had been down for half an hour and plans for the evening were still up in the air. Jackson had hardly touched the dinner Ruth had prepared—steak, corn on the cob, and beefsteak tomato salad, followed by apple pie nicely warmed in the oven, with whipped cream on top. In the middle of the meal he suddenly got up from the table, muttered something about needing to feed the dogs, and disappeared out the back door with a couple of cans and a can opener in hand. After a while he came back in and sat silently at the table, chain smoking and refilling his glass with gin over Ruth’s protests.

  “Please, Jackson, if we’re going to the concert, you’ll have to drive, so you’d better hold off on that.” To which he grimaced and poured himself another hit.

  “Let’s not go,” said Edith. “You don’t have to entertain me. I can just watch television, or we can play cards, whatever you like.”

  Jackson scowled at her. “I told Alfonso we’d be there. I’m fine; don’t worry. I’ll just take a nap while you girls get ready. Wake me up at nine.” He rose and shambled toward the stairs.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” Ruth called after him. “I’ll have it all ready for you when you wake up.” She turned to her friend apologetically. “I’m sorry, Edie. He just needs rest.”

  Edith, tired of Ruth’s excuses, was losing patience.

  “What does he have to rest for? He hasn’t done anything all day except mope around, sleep practically the whole afternoon away, then bundle us into the car and haul us off to his friends’ house, dump us in the living room and leave us to make small talk with a total stranger. Then when we got back he disappeared into the studio for a couple of hours. Okay, I thought, at least he’s doing some work in there, but when we went to get him for dinner he was just sitting there with the dogs at his feet, staring at the wall. With a half-empty gin bottle next to him.”

  She reached for the pack of Camels he had left on the table and took one for herself. “If you two want to go to the concert, fine, but I’m staying here. I don’t want to be in the car with him in that condition.”

  Ruth was persistent. “You’ll see; he just needs to sleep it off. Let’s not disappoint him. Finish your cigarette while I clear the table, then we’ll go upstairs and make ourselves beautiful.” She gathered up some plates and carried them to the sink.

  “I’ll bet you’ve never been inside a mansion. That’s where we’re going, a genuine mansion,” Ruth went on with enthusiasm. “It even has a name, not just a number like an ordinary house. It’s called The Creeks, because the property has a creek on either side. You drive down a long, winding driveway through b
eautiful grounds, all landscaped, and pull up to a covered entrance, just like those glamorous house parties in the movies.” She hoped that would pique the interest of her film-loving friend.

  “Inside,” she continued, “the house is full of modern art. The owner, Alfonso Ossorio, is a painter himself, but he’s a collector, too. He’s rich, so he can buy anything he wants. He has several of Jackson’s paintings. I’m hoping I can persuade him to look at some of the things in my gallery. That’s another reason to go, to try and soften him up a bit.” She was remembering how he had ignored her at the party a couple of weeks ago.

  Warming to her topic, Ruth decided to apply some wishful thinking.

  “Alfonso knows everybody. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of his Broadway and Hollywood friends will be there. Lots of them have summer places out here. Why, I saw Lauren Bacall shopping at the farmer’s market in Amagansett last weekend, and I heard Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller are staying around there. That’s not far away. Maybe they’ll come.”

  That was enough for Edith. She could watch Two For the Money, People Are Funny, or Lawrence Welk any Saturday night, but when did she have the chance to socialize with celebrities? Even just seeing them across the room would provide her with excellent stories for her clients at the Beautique Salon on West 57th Street, where she worked as a hairdresser and receptionist.

  “All right, Ruth, you win. Here, I’ll help you with the dishes and then we’ll get changed.”

  “Leave the dishes, Edie. You go on up while I get the coffee ready.”

  Walking quietly up the stairs and past the closed door to the guest room where Jackson was sleeping, Edith entered the master bedroom and switched on the light. She glanced at the bathing suit she had left on the chair, wondering whether they would get a chance to swim tomorrow. In anticipation of an evening out, she had brought a charming blue party dress that complemented her eye color. Crossing to the closet, she slipped out of her sundress and exchanged it for the blue one. From the bureau drawer she removed a garter belt and nylons and put them on, then a couple of half slips that fluffed out the skirt nicely. A pair of white pumps, a matching handbag, and a white rayon scarf finished off the outfit.

  She sat on the bed nearest the back wall, where a shelf held a portable vanity, and opened her makeup case. Inside, among the cosmetics, was a string of blue glass beads. As she put them around her neck, she glanced at the mirror and was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. The necklace was a gift from her lover, Nick—ten years older than she, and married, with two young children—who was also her boss at the salon.

  “Blue to match your beautiful eyes,” he had told her, kissing her neck as he fastened the clasp.

  She closed those eyes and savored the memory of his kiss, his touch. But with equal intensity she remembered the agonizing days working in the same room with him but unable to acknowledge their relationship. And the weeks of waiting for the opportunity to steal time together, when he could make some excuse for working late that wouldn’t arouse his wife’s suspicions.

  After more than a year of this secrecy and duplicity she was still deeply in love with him, but had come to the realization that he would never leave his family and marry her. Her eyes opened, and she wiped away the tears that had formed under her lids.

  I must be realistic, she said to herself. When I get back to the city I’ll break it off. I can find a job someplace else. Ruth says I should do like she’s doing, follow my heart and not care what anyone thinks, but I do care. And my heart is going to break if I don’t pull myself together. He says he loves me, but even if that’s true, it’s not enough.

  Edith squared her shoulders and smiled at her reflection. “That’s better,” she told the mirror. “Don’t be a fool. Face facts and get on with your life.”

  She found a box of tissues, blew her nose, gave her eyes another wipe, and applied her makeup.

  Twenty.

  Ruth stood outside the guest room with the coffee. A gentle tap on the door brought no response.

  “Isn’t he awake yet?” asked Edith as she emerged from the bedroom.

  “Awake or not, I have to go in and get changed,” said Ruth. “All my clothes are in the closet in there.” She gave Edith an appraising once-over. “You look gorgeous! I love that color on you. Isn’t that the necklace Nick gave you? Perfect.” She kissed her cheek.

  “You go down and I’ll get this coffee into him. He can wash up while I get dressed. He has clean clothes in the dresser. There’s more coffee on the stove if you want it.”

  Edith said okay, went downstairs, and turned on the radio, hoping to tune in Saturday Night Swing on WNEW but finding only a Rhode Island station playing classical music. Oh, well, she thought, it’ll put me in the mood for the concert.

  Ruth opened the guest room door and entered. The room was dark and stuffy, with blinds drawn over the closed windows as if to exclude the world, but she could make out a huddled form on the bed.

  She switched on the bedside lamp and saw Jackson curled into a fetal position under the sheet. He groaned and pulled the sheet over his face.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she cooed as she set the coffee cup on the bedside table. “It’s nine o’clock, time to rise and shine.” Her simpering was met with a curse as he stretched, grimaced, and blinked his eyes open.

  “Fuck the coffee. It’s you I want. Come here.” A rough hand grasped her wrist and pulled her onto the bed.

  “Jackson, not now!” She freed her arm from his grip. “We have to get ready for the concert. Edith is all ready and waiting downstairs.”

  “Let her wait. I love you, goddammit. I need you.” Clumsily, he pulled at the straps of her sundress and fumbled for her breasts. The effort seemed to exhaust him. He lurched forward, buried his face in her lap, and without warning started to sob.

  “I’m afraid,” he gasped, “help me.”

  He had pushed the right button. Ruth dissolved into a puddle of concern. “Jackson, darling, what are you afraid of? I won’t let anything hurt you. I promise. What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll lose you. Help me show you how much I love you.” He pulled back the sheet, revealing his naked body, and placed her hand on his flaccid penis.

  “Help me,” he whispered.

  Ruth felt her nipples contract, sending a stab of desire down to her genitals. A slow smile spread across her face. Now she was in control. The world’s greatest artist was begging her to restore his manhood, his self-respect, his genius. And she had the power to do it.

  Ignoring his bloated belly and sour breath, she stroked him as she bent over and kissed him deeply on the mouth, and he moaned as he returned her kiss. She kissed him again, lower down this time, then lower still, and felt him begin to harden.

  “Watch me,” she said. She rose and began to undress, caressing herself as she did so. “I’m pretending you’re touching me, arousing me,” she teased, while he followed her hands with his eyes.

  At one point he actually licked his lips, and she chuckled low in her throat. “I want you to lick my lips. Not the ones on my mouth, the other ones.” She stood beside the bed with legs apart and he obliged her, while her hand kept his penis occupied.

  When he was fully erect, she pulled back. “Now,” she said, “you can do what you want with me. But close your eyes for a minute while I get ready.” He grinned and did as he was told, playing with himself and burning with anticipation while she reached into the bureau drawer and took out her diaphragm, applied a dab of cream, and inserted it.

  Suddenly she was on top of him, straddling him and groping for his erection. His eyes popped open and he thrilled at the sight of her—young, beautiful, glistening with sweat and panting with desire for him and him alone. She threw back her head and gasped, calling his name softly as he slipped inside her.

  His self-pity and despair evaporated, and he felt a surge of hope. If
I can still get it up, still satisfy a sexy girl like this one, then I still have what it takes to paint. Doesn’t it all come from the same place? Painting, screwing, it’s all about creating. Yes, I can do it; I can do it all!

  Her coffee finished, a couple of cigarettes smoked, and her patience at an end, Edith looked at the kitchen clock with frustration. It said nine thirty. What the hell is keeping them? The damn concert will be over by the time we get there. Well, maybe that’s not so bad. The reception afterward is really what Ruth is looking forward to, and that’s when I’ll get the chance to rub elbows with the movie stars.

  Even with the back door open, it was hot in the kitchen, so she decided to sit outside on the lawn. It was a pretty night—the crescent moon’s reflection dappled the creek, the fireflies were flashing their mating signals, and the katydids chirped cheerfully in the undergrowth.

  Edith settled into a lawn chair and began to plan her future.

  Twenty-one.

  Monday, August 13

  At 11:45 a.m. Trans World Airlines Flight 83 landed on schedule at New York International Airport, commonly known as Idlewild, since it was built on the grounds of the Idlewild Beach Golf Course. Alfonso Ossorio and his companion, Ted Dragon, were on hand to meet the plane. As they watched Lee descend the gangway, they steeled themselves for the long drive back to East Hampton with what they assumed would be a basket case.

  But when she neared the gate they could see that she looked composed and determined, ready to face the ordeal they all knew was coming. The outpouring of sympathy had already begun, with tributes flowing in from friends and enemies alike. Even Alexander Eliot, Time magazine’s conservative art editor, who never missed an opportunity to heap scorn on Pollock and his art, had sent his condolences to Lee. Those who viewed Jackson as the killer of an innocent victim—assuming Edith had died in the crash—were maintaining a discreet silence, at least for now.