Shadow of a Broken Man

I pocketed the newspaper photo, thanked Frank Alden, and headed for the door.

'Hey, Mongol What's up? Where you going now?' I told him I didn't know what was up, and I hoped I was going to the bottom of things.

12

On my way to the bottom of things I took an elevator to the newspaper morgue in the basement.

There was no listing for a Marianne Morton in any of the borough directories. It was possible she had an unlisted number, but I considered it more likely that she'd remarried. If so, there was reason to assume that the marriage had made the society pages; Arthur Morton had been a big name, and he hadn't exactly left his widow penniless. I was hoping she'd decided to stay around New York City.

I started with a newspaper dated a month after Morton's death and worked my way toward the present. I finally found what I was looking for in an issue dated two years to the day after Morton had been murdered. Marianne Morton, the widow of Dr. Arthur Morton, had married an import- export magnate by the name of Khalil Vahanian. The accompanying photographs showed a respectable middle-aged couple. Vahanian was dark, apparently Middle Eastern; he looked embarrassed, like a man who didn't enjoy having his picture taken. Marianne Vahanian's picture was blurred, but I could see that she was smiling.

A Vahanian Import-Export Company was in the Manhattan directory, but there was no home phone listing for its president. I called the company and was told the president was away. They wouldn't tell me where he lived, or how I could get in touch with him. I got lucky when I took a flier and started combing through the directories of the outlying counties. There was a Khalil Vahanian in the town of Tuxedo Park, a small, exclusive, walled-in community of millionaires in Orange County. It had to be the same one.

From what I'd heard of Tuxedo Park, it was going to be difficult dropping in unannounced, but I was going to have to find a way. I couldn't think of a way of sliding into a phone conversation about the death of Marianne Vahanian's first husband gracefully, and I didn't want to turn her off before I'd had a chance to talk to her in person.

I rented a car and drove up the West Side Highway, across the George Washington Bridge, and up the Palisades Parkway. It felt good to be out of the city. The foliage on the trees along the Palisades was lush and green, and the strip of concrete beneath the wheels seemed like a suspended highway snaking through some primeval jungle. It was a pleasant, otherworldly effect, very relaxing. I almost forgot for a few minutes the ugly, bloody threads unraveling behind me.

A glance into the rearview mirror revealed that I was not alone. A green Cadillac was coming up fast. As I watched, its driver eased off the accelerator and the car settled down, about a hundred yards back, to a speed matching my own.

I took my gun out of its holster and put it on the seat beside me, then pulled off onto the shoulder. The Caddy sped right past. The two men in it seemed totally absorbed in an animated conversation, taking no notice of me. They went by too fast for me to get a good look at them, but the man on the passenger's side had curly red hair and was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. I waited until they were out of sight, then drove back onto the highway.

I reached Tuxedo Park at three forty-five. A short drive along the high stone fence brought me to a locked gate, where I honked my horn. A tall, uniformed private guard emerged from a kiosk and peered aristocratically at me from the other side of the gate. He was tall and held his chin high, shoulders back, like a general personally guarding some military installation. He opened the gate but didn't move out of the way as I inched forward; he was a man who would defend the residents of Tuxedo Park with his life.

I braked and smiled up at him.

'Yes?' He said. The 'sir' was pointedly missing. He had a slight lisp.

'I'm here to see Mrs. Vahanian.'

'Is Mrs. Vahanian expecting you?'

'Of course. My name is Dr. Frederickson.' I was hoping the title would get me through the gate. It didn't; the guard went into his kiosk and picked up a phone.

He emerged a few moments later. He looked confused, and I took that as a good sign. 'No one answers,' he said uncertainly.

'She's probably out in the garden,' I said, deciding to take a chance. I watched him carefully as I said, 'You know how much time Mrs. Vahanian spends on her roses.'

The guard looked up at the sky as if waiting for divine guidance. Finally he cleared his throat and said, 'Mrs. Vahanian usually tells me when she's expecting somebody.'

'So? Today she forgot. Look, I'm not going to take it kindly if I have to go all the way back to New York without seeing Mrs. Vahanian, and Mrs. Vahanian isn't going to take it kindly if I don't take it kindly.' I paused for effect, then whispered conspiratorially, 'You know how these rich folks are.'

He knew how rich folks were. He made a half-bow and stepped out of my way. 'No offense, sir.'

'Don't worry about it.'

'I'm paid to worry, sir. Please don't forget to honk at the S-turn.'

I drove up a narrow, twisting lane, honked at the turn, then emerged into the community proper. I drove around for a while until I found Wood Lane. There were only three homes on the street, and the largest one belonged to the Vahanians. I parked at the curb and walked across a vast sea of manicured lawn toward a white, colonial-style home with an air of decadent tackiness that had probably cost extra.

There was no answer when I rang the bell, so I walked around to the back, politely calling Mrs. Vahanian's name. I found her at the rear of the house standing under a rose bower next to a metal garden table. The pitcher on the table contained a clear liquid that looked a bit thicker than water. The glass in her hand was half empty, which could account for the fact that she hadn't heard the phone, or me. She was sipping at her drink, staring at her roses.

I came closer. 'Mrs. Vahanian?'

She wheeled, almost spilling her drink. She was a handsome woman, with hair a shimmering silver that hadn't come out of a bottle. Her eyes were green, momentarily bright with shock, which gradually faded. She stared at me for a long time, then suddenly laughed. It was a hearty, infectious sound. 'Who the hell are you?' she boomed.

I held out my hand. 'My name's Frederickson,' I said, grinning and making a half-bow. 'I tried the front door, but couldn't get an answer.'

'How did you get in here?'

'Dwarf charm. I'm a private investigator. I'd appreciate it very much if you'd answer some questions.'

Her eyes filled with the kind of fear wealthy people have for strangers and private detectives, and especially strange private detectives. 'About what?' Her voice was breathy and the laughter was gone from it.

'Your first husband.'

She shook her head quickly. She looked as if she were getting ready to have me thrown off the property. 'I don't understand. What is it that you want?'

'There's no trouble, Mrs. Vahanian.' I put my hand on the back of one of the garden chairs and spoke quickly.

'I've been hired to look into the death of a man by the name of Victor Rafferty. He was one of Dr. Morton's patients.'

'Victor? Victor's been dead for five years. He died soon after …' Her voice trailed off, and she quickly poured herself another drink. Her eyes had gone out of focus, as though she were staring at something that had leaped out at her from the past.

'I came across the facts of Dr. Morton's death while I was investigating Rafferty. I was thinking that the one death just might have had something to do with the other.'

'I've always thought so,' she said distantly. Her eyes suddenly snapped back into focus on me. 'I've always felt that the police did not do an adequate job in trying to apprehend Arthur's killer.'