Murder Keeps A Secret Page 6

“What about the funeral?” Frost asked.

  “I don’t think there’s to be one, sir,” the maid replied before disappearing.

  For the first time, Frost had a chance to examine the living quarters of Grace Mann and David Rowan—what in former days the tabloids would have called a “love nest” but which, in the advanced eighties, was merely a chic Upper East Side apartment openly shared by its two occupants.

  The furniture was an odd, but surprisingly compatible, assortment of severely modern pieces and Art Deco antiques. The stark white walls were covered with large, brightly colored abstract paintings, one of which Reuben was sure was a Helen Frankenthaler.

  Grace Mann, wearing a black silk blouse and black pants, came in and embraced Reuben. She was wearing little or no makeup and her face looked drawn, though there was no evidence of tears.

  “Oh, Reuben, what a mess! You’ve seen the papers?”

  “Yes. I saw the Times at home and the Post headline on the way over—PULITZER PRIZER PUSHED. Wonderful taste.”

  The maid reappeared with a large glass of orange juice for Ms. Mann.

  “Will you have something, sir?” she asked. Frost declined.

  “I gather there’s to be no funeral,” Frost said while Grace drank her juice.

  “That’s right. David always said he hated funerals. He had no particular religion anyway, so we decided against it.”

  “‘We’? You and Harrison?”

  “Yes,” she said. “We’ll have a memorial service after things quiet down.”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  “Yes, they were here a couple of hours ago when I was scarcely awake. But there was a nice young officer. He was named Bautista, I believe.”

  “Yes, I know him,” Frost said, realizing that Bautista’s morning appointment “on a case” had been with Grace.

  “You do?”

  Frost explained his past connections with the detective and asked what she had told him.

  “What could I tell him? I don’t know of anyone that wanted to hurt David.”

  “You weren’t able to give him any leads?”

  “I’m afraid not. Nancy Rowan’s the only person I could think of, and that little creature isn’t in the business of killing people.”

  “I agree,” Frost said. Then he told her why he had come—how he had promised Harrison that he would do everything he could to solve the mystery of David Rowan’s death.

  “What I’d like to do, Grace, is to ask you some questions—some of which may be a trifle embarrassing. And most of which will probably duplicate what you’ve already told Detective Bautista. But if I’m going to be of any help to you, or to Harrison or the police, I’ve got to get David’s death—and the life he led before he was killed—in focus. All right?”

  Grace Mann looked fixedly at Frost as he spoke. She continued to rein in any emotions she might feel, though she seemed in earnest when she said she valued Frost’s assistance and wanted to be as helpful as she could.

  “Fine,” Frost said, the preliminaries over. “We agree that Nancy could not be the killer. But what about Alan?”

  “That’s impossible. He’s really a good kid.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Pretty well. For years he had nothing to do with David, but he’d been reconciled the last year or two.”

  “They got along all right?”

  “As well as any father and son these days. They had a big fight over Alan’s leaving Vanderbilt. And, yes, there was a big blow-up last summer, but everything had healed over.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “Alan wanted to go to Europe with some friends. David was still angry about the boy’s dropping out, so he refused to put up the money.”

  “Which meant he couldn’t go?”

  “Right. Alan’s a nice kid, but he’s never worked a day in his life, so he had no money for a trip. And Nancy doesn’t either.”

  “She’s a lawyer now, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. She works for some legal aid outfit in Trenton. Not much money there.”

  “How long since you’ve seen Alan?”

  “How long? A couple of weeks,” she said firmly, though there seemed a touch of nervousness in her voice. “He stayed over here one night when he came in for a rock concert at Madison Square Garden.”

  “And as far as you know, that was the last time he was in the city?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t always check in here when he comes in.”

  “Could he have killed his father?” Frost asked, looking directly at Grace Mann.

  “Anybody could have killed David,” she answered, then paused for what seemed to Reuben a long time. “But Alan a killer? No way.”

  Frost then asked casually about Marietta Ainslee, trying to conceal his great interest in the Washington widow. He did not receive much help.

  “I never met her. All I know about her is what David told me.”

  “Did he see her often?”

  “Quite a bit, yes. First, when the terms of his deal were being worked out, access to the Justice’s papers and all that. He flew to Washington several times for that last year.

  “He went back later, several times,” she continued, “to talk to her about personal details of the Justice’s life. But after a while he gave that up.”

  “Why?”

  “He never could see her alone. She was always with her new boyfriend, Ralston Fortes. Do you know about him?”

  “I’ve heard some things.”

  “David didn’t like him. Didn’t like him at all. He said the man always seemed unfriendly, and even menacing. He was a bodybuilder before he met Marietta, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “He was very aggressive in controlling Marietta’s interviews with David. David thought he might even be jealous—that maybe he wanted to do the Ainslee biography himself.”

  “A curious idea.”

  “Well, he did think he was a novelist.”

  “Yes. Was the widow being cooperative at the end?”

  “No. She was threatening to bring down the curtain on David altogether—to take back the papers and to discourage anyone from talking to him. But she hadn’t yet done anything about the threat.”

  “I gather the trouble was over the sex code in Ainslee’s diaries.”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Harrison told Cynthia about it at the dinner the other night.”

  “It’s so silly. David was so pleased with himself he couldn’t keep quiet about his discovery—great cocktail party talk. Inevitably she found out and was furious.”

  “What did David do about her threats?”

  “He told her the publicity she’d get by breaking their agreement would be far worse than having the ‘code’ mentioned in the biography.”

  “When did he tell her that?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “That recently?”

  “Yes. She didn’t move against him, but she did refuse to come to the Reuff Dinner.”

  “Very interesting.”

  Frost hesitated before bringing up the final item on his agenda—Tommy Giardi. He eased into the subject, if not especially gracefully.

  “Were you and David getting along?”

  “Now you sound like the police, Reuben,” Grace said, fixing him with a direct gaze. “But the answer is yes. Do you have any reason to doubt it?”

  “No, no, except …”

  “Except Tommy Giardi, is that it?”

  “Well … frankly, yes.”

  “I suppose Harrison told you about him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Harrison can be a dirty old man sometimes. But I’m not going to conceal anything—the police asked me about him too. I’ll tell you the whole story.” She paused and lit a cigarette.

  “Tommy Giardi is basically a pal, nothing more. We discovered we had a lot in common—like having our afternoons free, me after finishing the morning telecast, Tommy befo
re dinner began at his restaurant.

  “For better or worse, David and I just didn’t have that much time together during the week. Every morning when I got home, about nine-thirty, he’d already have gone to that office of his. He always ate lunch at his desk, so I didn’t see him until he returned, usually around six, when I was already thinking about going to sleep.

  “Anyway, about three months ago I met Tommy Giardi. I liked him—he’s amusing, considerate and handsome, in his macho, Italian way. So, yes, we’ve seen a lot of each other—in the afternoons.”

  “Did David know about this?”

  “He knew we were friends,” she said. “Which is basically what we were.”

  “‘Basically?’”

  “You mean did we ever sleep together? It’s none of your damn business, Reuben, but we did. Once or twice. But we weren’t in love, and our times in bed were, well, sort of frolics.”

  “Did David know about your, ah, frolics?”

  “No. There was nothing serious going on at all. David did know we were pals and didn’t seem to mind—he was glad I had company in the daytime.”

  “I gather Mr. Giardi doesn’t have the best reputation in the world.”

  “Oh, you mean the Mafia business? All ridiculous. Tommy’s a nice, hardworking man whose name happens to end in a vowel. That’s enough to get the rumors started in this town. Put it this way, Reuben. Tommy and I were—are—friends. David and I were lovers.”

  “You weren’t married, were you?”

  Grace Mann smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Now that he’s dead I can tell the truth. We were married. Sixteen months ago, in Maine.”

  “You say that now that he’s dead you can tell the truth. What do you mean?”

  “You probably won’t believe this, but there’s great pressure on me to remain single. The powers that be at the network think it’s very important for my image and the ratings. And with my contract up for renewal this year, I haven’t been about to quarrel with them.”

  “But it was in all the papers that you and David were together.”

  “Oh, that was all right. In fact, that was just fine. Made me seem a contemporary woman. But marriage was out.”

  Frost tried to absorb what Grace Mann was telling him, but her network’s values had him confused. He was eager to leave, but there was one more detail.

  “Grace, you said that David usually came home at night around six?”

  “Almost like clockwork. After all, it was our only real time together.”

  “But the night he was killed, he was at his office at seven. Do you know why?”

  “No. I was out in the afternoon and when I got back there was a message from David on the answering machine saying he might be a little late. It was our last communication—and by recording at that.” Mann’s statement was matter-of-fact; no sentimental tears were shed over this last, remote electronic contact.

  “Did he say why he’d be late?”

  “No. I figured he must have an appointment with someone. And I inferred from his voice that he wouldn’t be terribly late.”

  “That tape isn’t still around?”

  “No. No. I erase messages on the machine as soon as I receive them.”

  “You guessed that he had an appointment, but no idea with whom?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it? No, and as I said, I was only guessing that he was going to meet someone.”

  “I’ve kept you too long,” Frost said.

  “And I haven’t been very helpful, I’m afraid.”

  “You know where to reach me if you think of anything—anything—that might be a clue to David’s death.”

  Grace Mann promised that she would call if she thought of something, and showed Reuben to the door.

  8

  Horace

  Reuben Frost was chary of the answering machine in his townhouse. Like all mechanical devices, it terrified him, though he had mastered the Japanese/English instructions that had come with the contraption. As a result he was more or less pleased with its efficiency, though it still reminded him that he no longer kept a full-time office, where one could expect calls to be handled.

  Flipping the switch on the machine when he got home from Grace Mann’s, he found that Dotty Sheets, Luis Bautista and Cynthia all had called.

  He reached his wife at the Brigham Foundation; she wanted to know if they could go out to dinner that night.

  “Of course, dear,” Frost said. “Orso okay?”

  His wife allowed that it was.

  “Before you hang up, let me give you one morsel to chew on. Remember last night when you said Grace Mann and Mr. Giardi had no reason to kill David, since she could leave David at any time? Well, she and David were married. So think about that,” He promised fuller details over dinner.

  Then Frost called Dotty Sheets, by now in a high state as the intermediary in a murder investigation. She had done her work well; Frost could see Marietta Ainslee—but unfortunately not until Monday. Mrs. Ainslee and Ralston Fortes were leaving Washington on Good Friday for the Easter weekend.

  Finally, he found Bautista at his desk.

  “I talked to the widow.”

  “Widow?”

  “Grace Mann.”

  “Oh, yeah. She was married to the guy.”

  “Yes. That was a big surprise to me, Luis. What about Giardi?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him this morning. A greaser. Nothing to say.”

  “What else did you learn?”

  “Not much. Your lady friend down in Washington sounds more interesting.”

  “I agree. I’m seeing her Monday morning.”

  “Oh? I was about to get the D.C. police to have a look-in.”

  “Let me have a go first.”

  “Sure. That’s good.”

  Frost then told Bautista of Cynthia’s concern that Horace Jenkins be interviewed.

  “Yeah, I thought of that. I’m going over to the hospital in forty-five minutes.”

  “I want to go—well, not exactly want to go, but I think I should,” Frost said.

  “That may be hard. He’s dying, you know. And in about fifteen different ways, poor bastard. I had a hard enough time getting permission to see him myself.”

  “I can imagine. But I want to go with you if I can.”

  “Can you be ready in twenty minutes? I’ll pick you up.”

  “I’ll be out front on the sidewalk.”

  Frost was grateful for the short respite; he was still trying to sort out what he had learned—or not learned—from Grace Mann. Basically she had confirmed things he already knew, though the admission that she was married to David certainly made Tommy Giardi of greater interest. And his hunch was that more than palship and “one or two” rolls around the bed were involved.

  And the coldness of the woman! Continuing to go on the air each morning—even on the day after her husband was killed—and the total absence of tears, or even an expression of regret, had succeeded in making Frost suspicious. Maybe she was sublimating her grief through work and maintaining a stoic manner, but Frost wondered.

  Riding to Tyler Hospital in the unmarked police sedan Bautista was driving, Frost confirmed that Grace Mann’s story to him matched what she had told Bautista earlier in the day.

  “What’s your impression of the Giardi affair?” Frost asked.

  “Intense and steady—like every day,” Bautista replied.

  “You mean they slept together every day?”

  “During the week, yeah.”

  “Any special reason why you think that?”

  Bautista looked over from the wheel, grinning. “Nope. Just male intuition.”

  “Well, I happen to agree with you.”

  “I’ve done a little more work on Giardi,” Bautista added. “There’s a racketeering investigation going on, and a federal income tax audit as well. His restaurant’s packed every night, but it still loses money.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “S
ure. But the Feds are pretty certain he’s laundering money for his mob friends, and skimming it out of the restaurant as well. They say he could be indicted any day.”

  “I wonder what her network would say about that.”

  “Probably nothing. But I’ll bet you she dumps him. Those big six figures she pulls down are going to look better to her than a two-bit mob tax cheat.”

  As they came closer to the hospital, Bautista warned his companion that the visit they were about to make would not be pleasant.

  “I take it you’ve seen AIDS patients before?” Frost asked.

  “Twice. And if I had my way, never again. You just don’t understand how awful it is until you see somebody who’s got it. It’s terrible to say it, but if they’d tack up a few pictures of guys dying with AIDS, you could forget about condoms, and education and all the rest of it. You probably wouldn’t even have ‘safe sex’ if they did that.

  “It’s terrifying, Reuben,” he went on. “Lots of people who don’t live like we do—but harmless and decent. Talented quite often, too. And then the new trend …” Bautista seemed unable to finish his sentence.

  “New trend?”

  “Twenty percent—one-fifth—of the new victims are my people. Hispanics so high on drugs they can’t take a Boy Scout’s precautions and save themselves. And their women and their babies.”

  As they entered the Tyler parking lot, Bautista explained that he had called ahead to get permission for Reuben to accompany him. “The nurse said okay, there wasn’t much that could harm Jenkins at this point. She said normally we couldn’t come at the dinner hour, but it doesn’t matter. Nobody eats dinner on the AIDS floor. They’re all on IVs.”

  At the hospital, the two men were detained at the nursing station by the no-nonsense supervisor Bautista had talked to, Ms. Creighton.

  “You’re lucky, gentlemen,” she informed them. “Mr. Jenkins is lucid right now. He slips in and out all day, and he could do so again without any warning. He’s also on oxygen for his pneumocystis carinii pneumonia—PCP for short. We can’t take him off that for very long. I understand the purpose of your visit, and I know how important it is, but I must ask you to keep your questions brief.”

  Her listeners nodded agreement.

  “Have you ever visited an AIDS patient?”

  “I have,” Bautista said. “Mr. Frost has not.”