A moment later, Shilling rose from the sofa and sat in Farrow’s vacant armchair.
“If I do this for you, what’s in for me?” Shilling said in a solemn tone.
Morrison wiped his mouth with the palm of one hand and gazed intently at the DA. “How about a large contribution to your political war chest?”
Shilling met the banker’s eyes. “How big?”
“Let’s say large enough to get you the party’s nomination.”
A smile crept across Shilling’s face as he extended his hand. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Alan.”
Alice Simms and Robert Darcey parked their Crown Vic on Lexington Avenue around the corner from Gramercy Park and East 21st Street but near the building where Paul Myer had lived. The two detectives decided not to attract attention in this otherwise tony neighborhood where the privileged few who lived in the brownstones surrounding the park had their own keys to the private park. In an area where Beemers, Jags, and Bentleys were commonplace, a dull gray Ford would stand out like a Swede in China.
“This area depresses me,” Simms said as they walked along the park’s wrought-iron fence. “Reminds me of the dump I live in over on Broadway and 95th Street. Not even a pet to keep me company. Landlord doesn’t like them. Only cockroaches and fleas are allowed.”
“Sounds like you could use a husband or a new place.”
Simms snorted. “The latter definitely. As for the husband thing… done that.”
“There’s an ex?” Darcey said.
“Kevin Palmer, double ex. Ex-husband, ex-Army. Came back from Somalia with what the doctors described as post-traumatic stress syndrome, but it quickly developed into plain old run-of-the-mill alcoholism with physical abuse thrown in for good measure.” She turned and looked away. “Kicked his ass out two years ago.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about what your brother’s going to do next.”
“Oh, yeah. How is Eddie doing?” Simms said as they crossed the street toward the apartment building.
“Spends his whole day in the recliner, chain smoking and watching QVC,” Darcey said. “His room is full of unopened boxes, stuff he’s bought on TV. Says voices make him buy it.”
“He really should be in an institution where professionals can take care of him. Schizophrenia is not easy to handle.”
“Can’t. Promised mom before she died that I’d take care of him. He’s my older brother and the only family I have,” Darcey said as they neared the green marquee that jutted out over the doorway of Myer’s luxury apartment building.
“What I can’t figure out is how Myer rated living here,” Simms said. “When he got out of Attica he was living in a hole-in-the-wall tenement in the Village. Then two months ago he upgraded to this.”
Minutes later, the two cops stood in Paul Myer’s living room with a tile floor large enough and a ceiling high enough for a basketball game.
In Moran’s living room, he and Hernandez sat cross-legged on the abstract design carpet amid five open cardboard boxes, sifting through notebooks, jewelry boxes and other knickknacks that had once been Lacy Wooden’s personal effects.
Moran’s face was screwed on tight, his mood dark as he sifted through one of the boxes. “This is going to take forever. I hope Simms and Darcey get here soon,” he growled.
Hernandez peered at his boss. “Besides that, what else is bothering you?”
Moran narrowed his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to Hernandez. “As if we didn’t have enough to do. Shilling wants us to look into Paul Myer’s embezzling ten million dollars from Morrison Savings & Trust.”
Hernandez creased his brow. “Why is that name familiar?”
“It’s one of the banks that Hubert Singer did business with.”
“Now I recall. Singer closed out all his accounts a week before he…” Hernandez’s voice trailed off.
“Go on, you can say it. Escaped, vanished, disappeared—take your choice. And he did it on my watch,” Moran’s voice was bitter.
Sandra entered the room with a tray of sandwiches and two tall glasses of iced tea. “I thought you could use this.” She moved toward the coffee table.
“Sure looks a lot cheerier in here now,” Hernandez said. Gone was the dark, stodgy classical furniture that had once sat on top of a dark carpet. Also gone were the heavy mahogany bookshelves that had covered all four walls. They had been replaced by maple bookcases and track lighting. Black and white tile gave the living room an art-deco air, with recessed lighting in the ceiling and modern off-white Swedish functional furniture.
“Did you re-do the rest of the place?” Hernandez asked.
Sandra set the tray down on the coffee table across from the unlit fireplace, shook her head and glanced briefly at Moran.
“No, James only let me change this room. Told me the living room was mine to do with as I pleased, but the other two floors were not to be touched. So, upstairs we’re in a world of dark wood and rococo furniture.” She gave Moran a bored smile. “Like the Dark Ages.”
Moran reached over, grabbed a ham, mayo-and-cheese sandwich and took a large bite. Through a mouthful of food and with his thumb dabbing a spot of mayonnaise on his lip, he mumbled, “I only keep her around because she makes great sandwiches.”
Sandra rolled her eyes, “Men!” she exclaimed. “As Zsa Zsa Gabor said, the only time a woman can change a man is when he’s a baby.”
Hernandez chuckled and hoisted himself up from the carpet. He pointed to a silver frame on the mantle over the marble fireplace. The photograph of a brown-eyed teenage boy with sandy hair and a melancholy smile was in the center.
“It’s hard to believe the doctors in London couldn’t get all the tumor. How old would he have been now?” Hernandez asked.
Moran and his wife exchanged sad glances. “Fifteen in two weeks,” Sandra whispered.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories,” Hernandez said.
“That’s okay. We all thought the operation in London was going to work,” Sandra said.
Moran got to his feet and moved toward his wife. “There was nothing anyone could do.”
Sandra gave a forced smile. “I, eh, better get upstairs and finish vacuuming,” she said and hurried out of the room.
After Sandra left, Hernandez sat back down on the carpet and started to flick through Lacy Wooden’s diary, a leather bound book with a brass lock. “Hey, check this,” he said, and showed the page to
