crowd. He’s been gambling, and I’m rather afraid Mr. Van Doorn might have accrued some debt with a local gangster.”
The fat man snorted. “Do tell.”
“If you could answer a few questions, I would be very appreciative.” While Matt spoke, he laid a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. The fat man’s meaty hand slammed down on the bill like he was swatting a fly. When he lifted his hand again the money was gone.
“What sort of business does my friend do here?”
“Look around, pal,” the fat man replied. “This here is a pawnshop, and he ain’t been buying.”
“So he’s pawning things? Valuable items?”
The man behind the counter shrugged. “A cigarette case. A money clip. Cufflinks. A couple of rings. The other day he brought in an Omega watch. Today he brought in a Rolex. Took three hundred bucks for it.”
Matt pursed his lips. “And you say Van Doorn’s been doing this for a week.”
“Maybe longer,” the big man said, showing a bit of sympathy for the first time. “Folks get in trouble—”
“I know. And they have to sell their lives away, piecemeal.” Matt cleared his throat. “Roughly how much money have you paid Mr. Van Doorn for these items?”
The fat man scrunched up his face. “Hard to say, buddy. He didn’t always take money. Sometimes he traded his stuff for other merchandise.”
I was surprised and baffled. In this sea of junk, I could find nothing Neils Van Doorn would need or want. But Matt didn’t miss a beat.
“I see you have a collection of military items in the window,” he said. “Did my friend trade his jewelry for something like that? A knife, perhaps? Or something more lethal?”
The question dangled in the close air. The fat man studied Matt for a moment. My ex-husband slipped his hand into his pocket and produced another fifty dollar bill. Slowly, he slid it across the counter. But this time, when the fat man’s hand came down on it, Matt didn’t let go.
“What did Van Doorn buy from you?” he asked in a firm voice.
The fat man leaned close, until he was eye to eye with Matt. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “Listen, buddy, I don’t want no trouble and neither do you.” The fat man’s eyes drifted up to the hole in the wall. “Let’s just say your friend took something a little more dangerous than a bayonet and leave it at that.”
“Are you saying he bought a firearm?”
The fat man yanked the bill out of Matt’s hand, leaned back. “You said your friend was in trouble, right? That he got in deep with the wrong guys, right?”
“That’s right,” Matt said with a nod.
“Then take my advice. Instead of buying his stuff back, just give him the money you were going to spend. Tell Von Doom to pay off the guys carrying his marker, and throw that .38 he’s packing in the East River.”
“Then you did sell him a gun,” Matt pressed.
The fat man spread his arms wide and grinned. “Gun? Who said anything about a gun? You sure didn’t hear it from me.”
The man sat back in his stool, peered down his nose at Matt.
“Now beat it. You and that nervous-looking babe over there. I don’t want no trouble.”
Matt grabbed my hand and practically dragged me out of the pawnshop. In the street, the wind was blowing off the Hudson River, but the misty drizzle had ceased. We walked almost two blocks before Matt spoke.
“Call Quinn. Tell him what we found out.”
I pulled out my cell, speed dialed his precinct number. To my surprise, I got through to him. While we headed east, back to Midtown, I filled Mike in on what we’d learned. I told him about my suspicions, about the hat Van Doorn was wearing, and how the man who mugged Ric that night was wearing the same kind of cap.
“It’s a nice theory, Clare, but there are several holes in it,” Mike told me.
“Holes? What holes?”
“For starters, this Neils Van Doorn has no connection to Ellie. As far as I can see, he never even met Mrs. Lassiter. And anyway, Ellie wasn’t shot.”
“Then why did he buy a gun?”
“Maybe he didn’t,” Quinn replied. “Matt was feeding cash to the guy at the pawnshop. He was probably telling tales to keep the payoff flowing. If the only proof you have is the word of that pawnshop scumbag, you really don’t have much at all.”
“But owning an unlicensed handgun in New York City is illegal, right?” I argued. “There’s no way it could be licensed. The pawnshop clerk didn’t even know Van Doorn’s name!”
I could hear Quinn’s sigh over the cell phone. “I’ll look into it,” he said.
“How about putting a tail on Van Doorn,” I suggested.
“We don’t have the manpower to chase everyone we think might have an illegal handgun.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, and I was beginning to think maybe I was on the wrong trail again.
“I’ll look into it, Clare,” Quinn finally said. “That’s all I can promise.”
I thanked him and closed the phone. When I looked up, I noticed Matt was on his own call. He spoke for a minute, and then hung up, frowning.
“I just spoke to Monika Van Doorn’s personal assistant. Mrs. Van Doorn is unavailable. She’s making preparations for tonight’s Dutch International Halloween party.”
“Great. How are we going to talk to her about Ric’s decaf scheme?”
“Come on...”
Matt bolted for the corner of Eighth Avenue, where he frantically tried to wave down a cab.
“Where to now?” I asked.
“We’re going to see my mother. She’s been invited to Monika’s big party tonight. We’re going with her. We’ll crash it if necessary.”
“But, Matt, it’s a costume party! Do you know what the population of this burg is? Every masquerade shop is certainly cleaned out by now. Where are we going to find costumes in New York City
Twenty-Five
“Sorry, ma’am. We can’t be going any farther. There’s craziness ahead.”
I could hear exasperation behind the limo driver’s Caribbean lilt. His Lincoln Town Car was completely surrounded by the mob of people. There was no going forward, or turning back.
“I tried to tell you two,” Matt said. “Traffic’s blocked by the parade. We’re lucky we got this close to Sixth Avenue.”
Madame sighed. “Very well, we shall walk from here.”
Matt climbed out of the Town Car. Adjusting his Zorro hat over his black mask, he circled the car and opened the door. Madame lifted her hand. With a dramatic flourish, Matt tossed the ebony cape over his shoulder, pushed back his plastic sword, and took his mother’s hand. Madame’s elaborate red and white gown rustled as she exited the car.
“Welcome to the Halloween parade, Your Majesty,” Matt said with a deep bow.
The Queen of Hearts curtsied, eliciting a smattering of applause from the spectators, many of whom were also in costume.
Madame’s outfit was suitably outrageous. Her faux Elizabethan dress, with a large scarlet heart bodice, ballooned when she stepped onto the sidewalk, and the crowd parted to give her room to pass. She wore a tasteful tiara in her upswept silver hair and long red opera gloves on her arms. A heart shaped mask with a sequin-covered handle completed her disguise.
When we’d arrived at her penthouse apartment earlier in the day, Matt and I found Madame assembling her costume. We explained our situation, and our desire to crash the party, and Madame declared she had the perfect costumes for both of us.
“Matteo shall wear the costume with which he dazzled the ladies back in his early twenties. You remember
