underdog, the weak against the big, important man. No, she didn’t think I’d want a long court fight-adultery, lies, headlines, dirt, my whole past raked over. I’m no angel, so she didn’t think I’d want to risk a battle in the open I could easily lose.’
I said, ‘But could she really hurt you that way? In these days?’
‘Blackmail doesn’t always depend on real damage,’ Vega said, ‘but on possible damage. The victim afraid to risk damage.’
‘You thought there was a chance of damage?’ Gazzo asked.
‘She did, Captain,’ Vega said. ‘Anne wasn’t bright. Tough, not bright. We live in a transition time. The young have free morals, but strong ethics. Free, but honest, and she was going to make me look dishonest, smelly, dirty. The older middle-class people show a lot of backlash for rigid morality. My own money goes into my movies. I could be hurt at the good middle-class box office. My name is a draw. I could lose financial backing. The young admire me, I could become an ethical leper. Could, Captain. For a price, I’m safe. That’s what she tried.’
Gazzo said, ‘What price?’
‘Twenty-five thousand, my name on a contract to direct one play, co-produce with her for one season, at New Player’s. A little cash, and my name. She gets an abortion, I’m safe.’
‘You agreed?’ Gazzo scowled.
Vega’s face was like dark granite. ‘I grew up in a Havana slum, Captain. I don’t scare, I don’t pay blackmail. It was tried before. I didn’t think she’d do it, but that didn’t matter. I don’t sell my name or my work, not ever.’
‘You turned her down?’ I said.
‘Flat,’ Vega said. ‘I also took some positive action. You might as well hear it from me. Some friends of mine went to see Ted Marshall. When they left, he didn’t want any part of blackmailing me, no. He was on my side. I never saw Anne again, and that was over two weeks ago.’
‘Then why send Sean McBride to Anne’s place yesterday?’ I asked. ‘To get what you’d left there, maybe?’
‘McBride? I didn’t send him. Why would I want to hide I knew her, the police had already questioned me?’ He gave me his superior smile-the prince chiding a dull mortal. His story was over. It was like coming out of a quiet movie theatre into the noise and chaos of the real city. His dark eyes glinted, ‘McBride said I sent him to Anne’s apartment?’
‘He didn’t mention your name,’ Gazzo admitted. ‘You never knew she was married, had kids, lived in Queens, too?’
‘She had children? Damn, no! I didn’t know any of that.’ Vega leaned toward Gazzo. ‘Look, Captain. I knew a young girl; tough, determined, not bright. We talked plans, theatre. I liked her. I’m sorry she’s dead. Now do I go home, or do I let the lawyer start earning his pay?’
Gazzo nodded them out. Ricardo Vega was all smiles, like the champ leaving the ring. There was no formal statement; the story wasn’t part of Anne Terry’s death-if it was true.
‘A good story, it sounds true, ‘Gazzo said.
‘Probably most of it is,’ I said.
‘Yeh, most of it.’ The Captain swivelled. ‘She did a lot of living for twenty-two. If we have to dig in all of it, we’re in trouble. Maybe Ted Marshall can help. I guess you’ll want to go along, too?’
I wanted to go along.
Chapter Ten
Mrs Marshall answered our ring. Something had happened to her. The motherly face had grown longer, taken on rocky cliffs. Her dyed hair was tied back like a combat nurse prepared for hard action, all trivia put behind her. There was a bottomless stare to her eyes, as if she had seen what could lie on the other side of her hope. Anne Terry had happened.
‘More police?’ she said. ‘And you, Mr Fortune?’
‘Other police were here, Mrs Marshall?’ Gazzo asked.
‘Late last night, yes. Ted went with them. He’s still not back.’
‘Denniken,’ Gazzo said to me. ‘He’s got the right, a known boy friend. If he’d learned anything, I’d know by now.’
‘What can Ted tell you?’ Mrs Marshall said, her voice level and quiet. ‘He knows nothing about poor Anne.’
‘He might not realize what he knows,’ Gazzo said. ‘You haven’t heard from him since the other police took him?’
‘He called from the police station. He said he was all right because he knew nothing. That was hours ago.’
Gazzo turned for the door. ‘I’ll stake a man here from the local squad.’
I followed Gazzo. Mrs Marshall spoke behind me.
‘Do you think he was the father?’
I turned. ‘Probably not, no.’
‘If he was, he’d have married her. He wanted to anyway.’
‘She was already married, Mrs Marshall.’
‘He didn’t know. She could have divorced.’
‘I guess she could have,’ I agreed.’
‘She wasn’t living with her husband, was she?’
‘In her own way she was,’ I said. ‘Weekends. Maybe not really with the husband. More with her children.’
‘The police told Ted there were children.’ She had that expression women with grown children got remembering when their children were little. ‘Every weekend? With all her work?’
‘She didn’t miss often, I don’t think.’
‘She must have been a good mother-in her own way.’
Her eyes went vacant, considering the qualities of being a mother. I went out after Gazzo. As I walked out of the elevator into the bar lobby, I got a quick glimpse of a small man in army fatigues ducking behind the basement door. I found Gazzo on the street beside his car. He’d already called for a local man. A Captain of Detectives has more than one case.
‘You want a lift?’ he asked me.
‘I’ll hang around for a while.’
Gazzo got into the back seat of his car. He’s not one of those high-rankers who like to prove they’re just- plain-cops by poses like riding up front with their drivers, scorning the soft privileges. Gazzo says he likes soft seats and thoughtful privacy as befits his rank and age.
I waited for the squad detective. This was one of my areas, and I knew him when he walked up: Detective (Second Grade) Leo Puskis. A nice cop, Puskis-too nice to make First Grade unless he gets lucky or gets shot in the line.
‘It can’t be much if you’re in it, Danny,’ he grinned.
‘It isn’t,’ I said, ‘but Gazzo thinks big.’
‘What Captain Gazzo thinks, I think. Fill me in.’
Nice. Not many detectives ask a private to fill them in, it’s not proper. I gave him the high points, and a better description of Ted Marshall. He went up to the Marshall apartment to wait. I went down into the basement. It was a neat basement, as meticulous and scrubbed as a Dutch housewife’s kitchen. There were three apartments for superintendents. One was empty, one was locked and silent. The third had slow music behind the door, and an engraved visiting card taped to the door: Francisco Orlando de Madero y Huerta. I had to knock twice. The music didn’t stop but the door finally opened.
‘Yes, mister?’ It was the small super, Madero. ‘Hey, it’s Mr?’
‘Dan Fortune.’
‘Sure.’ His lashes fluttered. ‘You come to see me?’
