Flesh and Blood Read online

  “Sure,” Ben said. “Thanks for the advice.”

  6

  Tolliver decided to talk to Ardis Merritt first, on the grounds that she was the more neutral of the two women. The writer was the one the media were using to churn up their gossip; he’d get to her later. The police report said the foundation was located next door to the senator’s home on East Seventieth Street. Ben got into his car and headed for the entrance ramp to the FDR Drive.

  The car he was driving was a new Ford that had been prepared by the factory for police use. On the outside, the vehicle was a garden-variety Taurus, a plain blue sedan you wouldn’t look at twice. On the inside, it was something else. The engine was a thirty-two-valve V-8 with an intercooler and high-lift cams that gave the machine a top of around 150 mph. And to hold it on the road, the suspension featured antisway bars and heavy-duty shocks.

  In addition, friends of the lieutenant in the NYPD motor-vehicle unit had added a few more touches, among them bulletproof glass and armor panels in the front doors and behind the driver’s seat. Hidden up under the dash in a quick-release scabbard was a 12-gauge pump shotgun with a pistol grip and a twenty-inch barrel. In the trunk was a coil of nylon rope, a length of steel chain, extra ammunition for the Mauser as well as the shotgun, and a number of other useful items, including a complete set of burglar’s tools. The car was not exactly designed for calling on a lady, but it would do. And it sure beat Ben’s old one, a battered wreck he’d owned for years.

  Best of all, the Ford was a hell of a lot of fun to drive. The reason he chose the FDR to go uptown was only partly because it was the quickest way to get there; it also gave him an opportunity to stretch the car’s legs. Some guys relaxed by hitting golf balls. Tolliver blew off steam by racing other drivers, which in New York was a blood sport. He made the trip in sixteen minutes—not a record, but close.

  The neighborhood surrounding the adjoining buildings in the Cunningham complex was about as tony as you could get, with the Frick museum just down the street. Fifth Avenue was a few steps away in one direction, Park a few more in the other. The buildings themselves were tall and elegant, faced in white stone.

  When he arrived, Ben saw that there was no place to park; the block was jammed with vehicles. One of them was an NYPD patrol car and near that was a van with WPIC TV’s call letters on it. Two cops were standing in front of the Cunningham mansion and another was at the entrance of the building housing the foundation. A small crowd of what Ben assumed was a mix of reporters and rubbernecks was on the sidewalk. He drove around the corner and left the Ford in a No Parking zone on Fifth Avenue, dropping a police plate onto the dash before getting out and walking back.

  Apparently, most of the civilians were from the media. He pushed his way through them to the front door of the foundation building, which was identified only by a small brass sign on the wall beside the entrance, and showed his shield to the cop. The officer stepped aside to let him in, but before he could get through the door, one of the reporters made him.

  She grabbed his arm. “Lieutenant Tolliver. Good morning.”

  He recognized her, as well. Shelley Drake was one of those near-perfect blondes the TV news shows seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of, all of them good-looking in a way that suggested inbreeding among Catherine Crier and Leslie Stahl and Diane Sawyer. No wonder Connie Chung stood out.

  “What do you hope to learn from this investigation?” Drake asked.

  Before he could answer, he saw her signal to a guy with a video camera. An instant later, the camera was on Ben. Drake moved close to get herself into the shot.

  “We’re simply looking into the circumstances surrounding the senator’s death,” Ben said.

  “Isn’t it true the police suspect there was a personal relationship between him and the woman who was with him when he died?”

  He chose his words carefully. “Senator Cunningham was a very prominent citizen. The police department wants to be sure all the facts concerning his unfortunate death are out in the open.”

  “Does that mean they’re not out in the open now? Certain information is being suppressed? To do with the woman?”

  “I don’t know of anything being suppressed. We’ll make available a complete report just as soon as possible.”

  “Why haven’t the police revealed that the woman is Jessica Silk, a divorcée who claims she was just writing a story?”

  That stopped him. He hadn’t realized Silk’s name had not been released. Nor did he know she was divorced, or anything else about her personal life. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s all I can tell you at the moment.”

  Drake still had hold of his arm, and he could feel her fingers digging into his bicep. At the same time, she was standing so that the grip on him wouldn’t be visible to the camera. He wondered how she’d like a kick in the kneecap.

  She moved her face closer to his. “Do you have any information as to how long they’d been seeing each other?”

  Getting rid of her was like trying to shed a bad case of flu. Smiling pleasantly, he peeled her hand off his arm and stepped past her to the door. When he went inside, Drake tried to follow him, but the cop blocked her way.

  He found himself in a large entrance foyer with a floor paved in black-and-white marble squares and with a high ceiling that had an elaborate brass chandelier hanging from it. On one wall was a life-size portrait of a man with a square jaw and thick black muttonchop whiskers. An inscription at the bottom of the frame identified the subject as Colonel Clayton Cunningham.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

  Ben turned, to see a husky, bald-headed man approaching from an inner doorway. He was wearing a plain gray suit, with a bulge showing in his left armpit.

  “Police,” Ben said. He showed the guy his shield. “I’m Lieutenant Tolliver, from the district attorney’s office.”

  “Evan Montrock, head of security.”

  “I’d like to see Ardis Merritt. Is she here?”

  Montrock said he’d check, then went back through the doorway.

  Ben turned to the portrait once more. He’d seen pictures of the senator often enough in the newspapers and he’d also seen him on TV. The man on the wall looked a lot like him. Or more accurately, the senator had looked a lot like his grandfather. Big, with an aggressive way of staring out at you from under bushy brows. Except for the whiskers, the two seemed almost like twins.

  Montrock was back. “If you’ll follow me, please, Miss Merritt will see you.”

  He led Tolliver through the door and into a reception area. There was a desk and a sofa and chairs, but no one else was in the room. Ben wondered whether members of the staff had been excused for the day, then decided they had been. He followed the guard through the area and into a wide hallway that had old oil paintings of horses and dogs on the walls. When they reached the end, the guard opened another door and stepped aside. Tolliver went past him into the room and the guard shut the door.

  This was a sitting room with a grouping of comfortable furniture arranged near a fireplace. A young woman was standing beside one of the tall windows. As Ben walked in, she stepped toward him, extending her hand. “Hello, Lieutenant. I’m Ardis Merritt.”

  Ben shook the hand. She wasn’t at all what he’d imagined she would be. Young, for one thing, which was the biggest surprise. He’d thought somebody heading an organization of the size and importance of the Cunningham Foundation would be old and starchy, and she wasn’t at all.

  Nor was she very attractive, with her brown hair tied back on her head, her face plain-featured and pale, dark eyes peering at him through heavy black horn-rims. She was wearing a cardigan sweater and a tweed skirt and blocky shoes, and he wondered whether she thought the frumpy clothes made her seem more serious, so as to offset the impression of youthfulness.

  He also noticed the flesh around her eyes was swollen, probably from crying. But she was holding herself erect, as if taking pride in her efforts to remain stoic.

  “I wa
s sorry to hear about the senator’s death,” Ben said.

  She nodded briefly. “It was a terrible shock. Somehow you think someone of that stature will be with you forever. And then when he’s gone, you can’t quite comprehend the loss, can’t measure it.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” He shifted his feet. “Miss Merritt, the reason I’m here is that I’ve been assigned to head up an investigation. I understand you were with him when he died?”

  “That’s correct, I was.”

  “And that his death occurred in his office here in this building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Upstairs, on the second floor.”

  “Would you mind showing me? That would make it easier for me to learn exactly what happened.”

  “I’ve already told the police exactly what happened,” she said, “as well as the family and Dr. Phelps.”

  Ben kept his tone gentle. “Yes, but you see, I have to make out the final, official report.” He didn’t know whether it would be final or not, or whether it would be labeled official—or, for that matter, just what Oppenheimer would do with it.

  Merritt frowned. “Will the report be made public? I mean, there are already all these outrageous rumors flying around. I can’t believe the media would say such things.”

  “That’s why the investigation is important. It’ll help put an end to the stories. I know all this is unpleasant, but it’s just something that has to be done.”

  “I understand.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll lead the way.”

  They went through a door beside the fireplace, this one opening onto another hallway, with a flight of stairs at one end.

  “Excuse me,” Ben said.

  She turned back to him. “Yes?”

  “How did the senator come over here last night? What route did he take—would you know that?”

  “I assume the one he always took, which is through that doorway behind you, at the end of the hall.”

  “The door connects this building to his house?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then he would have gone up these stairs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How is the building laid out?”

  “The first two floors are where reception and the sitting rooms are, and the library and a conference room and the kitchen. The senator’s suite is on the second floor. His secretary also works there, and so do I. The third and fourth floors are all staff offices. My apartment is on the top floor, the fifth.”

  “Okay, thanks. Go ahead.”

  She led him on up the stairs, at the head of which was another hall, this one wide enough to provide a sitting area with a sofa and some chairs in it. More paintings of hunting scenes were hanging on the walls. Merritt went through the area to a door, opening it and showing Ben into the senator’s office.

  The room was large and handsomely furnished in what obviously were antiques. He couldn’t help making a mental comparison to the space District Attorney Oppenheimer occupied in the Criminal Justice Building. The differences were night and day, spare versus luxurious.

  For a few moments, he stood in the center of the office, taking in details. For a room where a great deal had taken place the previous night, it seemed remarkably tidy: all in order, everything in its place. Not so much as a speck of dust could be seen on the furniture or the dark red Persian rug. There weren’t even any papers visible on the large, old brass-bound mahogany desk.

  He turned to Merritt. “Has this place been cleaned since last night?”

  “Yes. The maids were here at eight o’clock, just as they are every morning.”

  Which was perfectly proper, Ben reminded himself; this wasn’t a crime scene. “And the senator’s secretary?”

  “She came in also, for a short time. The poor woman was devastated, of course, as we all are. I sent her home.”

  He looked at the wall behind the desk. It was covered with framed photographs showing the senator with other famous people, mostly politicians who’d been in the public eye at various times over the past four decades. In some of the photos, however, he was with show-biz personalities, including Marlene Dietrich and Humphrey Bogart and a woman Ben thought might be Shirley MacLaine, but that seemed unlikely.

  “Mind if we sit down?” he asked.

  Merritt appeared reluctant, but he wanted to get her to relax a little, if possible. He indicated a table with two chairs standing against the wall to his left. “Over here okay?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he took off his raincoat and draped it over one of the chairs. Merritt took the other one and they sat facing each other, the young woman eyeing him warily.

  Ben rested his arms on the table. “If you would,” he said, “I’d like you to tell me everything you can remember about what occurred.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “I was up in my apartment watching television when the senator came into the building.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “How did you know he’d arrived?”

  “The head of security called me. You met him on the way in, Evan Montrock. That’s standard procedure after hours. If anyone comes here, a guard lets me know.”

  “How many men are on at night?”

  “Two, besides Montrock. One is always on the door and the other makes rounds through the building. They also go into the house and check on it periodically.”

  “I imagine there are TV monitors and an alarm system?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Ever have any trouble?”

  “Not in the time I’ve worked for the foundation.”

  “How long has that been?”

  “Six years.”

  “Did you come in as the chief administrator?”

  “No. For the first two years, I was an assistant to Mr. Welch, and then when he left, I took over.”

  “And never any trouble in all that time?”

  “No, not really. Once or twice there’ve been people out in the street in the daytime, demonstrating over one thing or another, but they never did any damage or anything like that.”

  “So security called you at a little after nine and said the senator had come into the building. Was that unusual, in the evening?”

  “Not at all. He often came over after dinner. He liked to do that because it was quiet then. No phones ringing, no people running about.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I came down here to see if there was anything he needed.”

  “Was that also standard procedure?”

  “More or less, but not because I was required to. I always wanted to help him in any way I could. He was the kind of man you felt privileged to do things for.” Her lower lip trembled. “After all he did for others, all his life.”

  Ben looked away, giving her time to compose herself.

  When he looked back, she said, “I would have done anything for him.”

  He wondered whether that included covering up a possible scandal. “Then what?”

  “Then Miss Silk arrived. She’s a writer who was doing an article on him, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Yes. How long had she been working on it?”

  “Quite a while, but I don’t know how long exactly.”

  “A week, a month?”

  “A few weeks, I think. The senator was considering expanding it, turning it into a book.”

  “Was that his idea, or hers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it a biography?”

  “He said it was going to be more about his views on different subjects. He was very progressive, you know. Very innovative in his thinking. Not just about politics but about every kind of social issue.” A small, sad smile curled the corners of her mouth. “I’m afraid that made problems for him from time to time.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “A lot of his constituents were old-line conservatives. They found it
hard to go along with some of his more liberal proposals for social reform. To them, liberal is a dirty word. Equates with Marxist.”

  “That must have made life difficult at times.”

  She held him in a steady gaze. “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “If you had, you’d know he didn’t care what such people thought. He did what he knew in his heart was right, no matter what kind of criticism resulted. He stood for things like free higher education and free medical care. You can imagine the battles that caused.”

  “Uh-huh. Getting back to Miss Silk …”

  “Yes?”

  “What happened when she got here?”

  “I brought her up here to the office and they went right to work.”

  “Where were they sitting?”

  “Here, at this table.”

  “Was she using a tape recorder?”

  “No. The senator didn’t approve of them. He felt that recordings could be misused. In the wrong hands, the things people say could put them in a bad light. He much preferred to have an interviewer take notes.”

  “And then he’d review the material later?”

  “When that was the agreement, yes.”

  “Would he agree to being interviewed for an article otherwise?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Were you here the whole time they were together?”

  “All except for a few minutes, when I went out to get some coffee for us.”

  “You went down to the kitchen?”

  “No. There’s a pantry on this floor, just off the hall. There’s a coffee maker there. I made a pot of coffee when the senator arrived, and then when Miss Silk got here, I brought it in.”

  “What were you doing while the interview was going on?”

  “Actually, I was doing some work of my own—reviewing a request for money from the Cancer Society. The only reason I was here was because the senator liked me to be around in case his memory needed a jog or in case there was something he wanted from the library, or from the files or whatever.”

  “Work his secretary would have done, in the daytime.”