Flesh and Blood

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Earlier today.”

  “And the death,” Farouk said. “It was with a knife, I believe.”

  “Yes, it was.” Frank told him. “But I’m not looking for the killer.”

  Farouk looked surprised. “What then?”

  “The police won’t release the body until a relative asks for it.”

  Farouk nodded. “Then you’re looking for a brother, sister, child?”

  “Yes.”

  Farouk smiled broadly. “Ah, then I can be of great assistance,” he said confidently. “I will start with birth certificates, then deeds.” His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Property is a great betrayer.”

  “I don’t have much to go on,” Frank said. “Right now, the only thing I know about Hannah Karlsberg is that she’s dead, and that the police won’t release her body.”

  “But that is not routine,” Farouk said. “This holding of the body. Do you know why they’re doing that?”

  “Probably because her hand was cut off,” Frank said. “Severed at the wrist.” He took a long draw on his cigarette. “It looks like the killer took it with him.”

  Something in Farouk’s large brown face drew strangely concentrated. “And they are hoping to find the hand?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Frank said. “And I can see how they’re thinking. Anybody crazy enough to steal a hand might be crazy enough to keep it.”

  “So they hold the rest of the body as a matter of evidence,” Farouk said.

  “With one piece missing,” Frank told him, and suddenly he saw the stump of Hannah’s arm as he knew it must look in the darkness of the morgue, ragged, caked with blood and with bits of shattered bone dangling from strings of torn flesh.

  He was still thinking of it when he felt Farouk lean toward him and lightly touch his arm.

  He glanced up quickly. “What?”

  Farouk did not answer, but only stared at him quietly for a moment. Then he pulled himself ponderously to his feet. “Home,” he said as he walked away.

  8

  Karen had already gone to the gallery by the time Frank made it back to the apartment. He showered quickly, changed his shirt, and went out again. The winter cold seemed to have deepened during the night, and before returning to his office, he walked into one of the cluttered hardware stores along Ninth Avenue and bought a small electric space heater. It was purring softly behind him a few minutes later as he looked up Imalia’s number, then dialed it.

  A woman answered immediately. “Imalia Covallo Designs.”

  “Is Ms. Covallo in?” Frank asked.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Frank Clemons.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  A flurry of harpsichord music suddenly came through his receiver, high and tinkling, and as he listened to it, he tried to imagine Imalia’s office, the thick carpet, sumptuous curtains and unimaginably soft textures which were inseparable parts of her world.

  “Hello, Frank,” Imalia said. “I’m surprised to hear from you so soon.”

  “I like to keep people informed,” Frank told her.

  “You mean you already have some information?” Imalia asked anxiously.

  “Not very much,” Frank said. “But it seems the police are hitting the same blank. I was hoping you might help me break through it.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe just by talking,” Frank said. “I need to talk to anybody who knew her, and right now you’re at the top of the list.”

  “But as I said,” Imalia told him. “I really didn’t know much about Hannah’s personal life.”

  “You might be surprised how much you knew,” Frank said. “I’ve seen it happen, believe me.”

  For a moment she seemed to hesitate. “Well, all right then,” she said finally. “How about lunch?”

  “Okay. Where?”

  “There’s a place on Madison Avenue,” Imalia said. “Bolero. Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “Madison and Fifty-first,” Imalia said. “Say, two this afternoon.”

  “Fine,” Frank said.

  “Don’t go into the dining hall,” Imalia said. “Just ask for me. I have a private room.”

  The private room was on the second floor, and Imalia was already waiting for him when the maitre d’ opened the narrow mahogany door and let him in.

  “Mr. Clemons,” he announced.

  “Thank you, Philippe,” Imalia said.

  She was sitting behind a small enameled table which had been covered by a lace tablecloth. A crystal bud vase with a single white orchid rested in the middle of it.

  “Thanks for being on time,” she said. “I like that in a person.” She glanced quickly at her watch. “I’ve already ordered for us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Frank said. He sat down in the chair opposite her and took out his small green notebook.

  “What’s that?” Imalia asked, nodding toward it.

  “I write things down,” Frank told her. “I don’t trust my memory.”

  “And then what do you do with your notes?”

  He decided to tell her what she wanted to hear. “When the case is finished and I’ve been paid, I burn them.”

  Imalia smiled tentatively. “I didn’t mean to question you,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve always been very careful about my privacy.”

  “Most people are,” Frank said dully. He took out his pen and held it over the notebook. “You said that Hannah had worked for you for over twenty years?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Yes, it is,” Imalia said.

  “And she never mentioned any relatives?”

  “Only a sister,” Imalia said. “And only in passing.” She shrugged. “I mentioned it to the police when they refused to release Hannah’s body.”

  Frank let his eyes drift over Imalia’s face. She had obviously taken very good care of herself. Her skin was smooth, white, and for the most part unlined. Her eyes seemed bright and youthful, and yet, from time to time, a strange weariness swept into them, lingered there for an instant, then dissolved.

  “That’s the only relative she ever mentioned,” Imalia added.

  “What did she say about her?”

  Imalia shook her head. “Nothing much.” She thought about it for a moment. “I remember that someone was talking about cremation, that in some places that was the way bodies were disposed of. And Hannah said something about it.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Something like, ‘Cremation, yes, like my sister.’”

  “And that was all she said?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you got the impression that her sister was dead?”

  “Dead, yes,” Imalia said.

  “And that’s all she ever said during the twenty years she worked for you?” Frank asked.

  “That’s all I remember her ever saying.”

  “Twenty years,” Frank said. “So she was with you almost from the beginning?”

  “More or less,” Imalia said. “I began everything from a small warehouse in Queens. It was just a big empty building, nothing but floor space.” She laughed. “I set up the metal tables myself. I lifted the bolts of cloth off the truck myself.” A sudden vehemence rose into her face. “So you see, nobody gave me anything. It’s important for you to understand that.”

  “But Hannah wasn’t with you at that time?” Frank asked.

  “Not at the very beginning, no.” Imalia said. “I handled practically everything myself for the first few years. But to tell you the truth, I wasn’t very successful. I needed someone with more experience. Someone who really knew the business from top to bottom. I was a designer, but I didn’t know everything there was to know about the trade. That’s why I hired Hannah.”

  “How did you happen to know about her?”

  Imalia thought about it for a moment. “From Tony. He mentioned her.”

&nb
sp; “Tony?”

  “Tony Riviera,” Imalia said. “He still works for me.”

  “And he first introduced you to Hannah?”

  “Yes.”

  Frank wrote down the name. “I need to trace Hannah back a little. That’s the only way I know to find her sister.”

  “But what would that matter, if the sister were already dead?”

  “Well, for one thing, if she had children, they would be blood relatives of Hannah’s.”

  “Yes, of course,” Imalia said. She took a quick sip of water. “Well, all I can remember is that she’d left the place she’d been working at.”

  “Why?”

  Imalia shrugged. “I don’t know. Some disagreement with the management, I suppose.” She stopped and looked at him closely. “Do you know very much about this business?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s very volatile,” Imalia said. “It’s extremely competitive, of course. But beyond that, it’s volatile. There are lots of enormous egos in this business. People get into fights. They leave places, or get fired from them.”

  “The place where she worked before, do you know where that was?”

  “Some small-time manufacturer,” Imalia said, “in Brooklyn, I think. At least that’s what Tony said.”

  “You don’t remember the name?”

  Imalia thought a moment. “Something about imports. I can’t remember. But it would be in her personnel folder.”

  “Where could I get a hold of that?”

  “At my administrative offices,” Imalia told him. “They’re on Thirty-sixth Street. Two oh four West Thirty-sixth Street. Tony should have it. That’s where his office is.”

  Frank wrote it down quickly, then looked back up at her. “You and Hannah worked well together, I guess.”

  “Yes, very well.”

  “You never had any serious arguments?”

  Imalia laughed lightly. “You don’t suspect me, do you?”

  “No,” Frank said. “But I’m not looking for her killer. I’m just trying to get some idea of what kind of person she was.”

  “Yes, of course,” Imalia said. “About your question. Well, yes, we got along. As I said before, we weren’t personally close. But then, not many people are, are they?”

  “No.”

  “But professionally we got along very well,” Imalia added. “Hannah was a dedicated person, and she was a competent person.”

  Frank flipped back through his notes. “You said she began as a seamstress.”

  “Well, not exactly,” Imalia admitted. “She worked on the floor, but that was only to let her get a fix on how the whole operation worked.”

  “Then what was her real job?”

  “She kept track of things,” Imalia said. “She handled shipments of raw textiles, calculated what we’d need for any particular garment, all sorts of things like that. She was a troubleshooter, an overall manager.”

  “Did she hire people?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And fire them?”

  “That, too.”

  “Did she ever come to you with any particular problem?”

  “Business or personal?”

  “Either one.”

  “Well, if she’d had personal problems, I doubt that she would have brought them to me. But business? That’s different. If she’d had real problems in that area, I suspect she would have come to me.” She shrugged slightly. “That’s not to say that Hannah wasn’t able to handle most things herself. She was. But still, if some matter arose that was really important, I think she would have come to me.”

  “Had she done that recently?” Frank asked immediately.

  “Not about business exactly,” Imalia said. “But a few weeks ago, she asked me to come by her apartment. A magazine was doing a story on home design.” She stopped. “Have you been to Hannah’s apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well decorated, don’t you think?”

  “It was very nice.”

  “Well, this magazine, Homelife, was planning to do a little photo layout on it. You know, how to live elegantly in limited space, that sort of thing.”

  “And they were doing it on Hannah’s apartment?”

  “Yes,” Imalia said. “And so she asked me to drop by and see if mere was some little touch that might be added.” She shook her head. “There wasn’t. It was all perfectly done.” She took a quick sip of wine. “Simply beautiful.”

  Frank’s eyes darted away from her and down to his small green notebook. “I’m going to have to look further back in Hannah’s life,” he said. “There are no immediate relatives as far as anyone can tell.” He flipped back a page of his notebook. “You said something about a personnel file.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will I have any trouble getting that?”

  “Not if I make a phone call,” Imalia said. “When do you want to pick it up?”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  Imalia glanced to the left and motioned for the waiter.

  “Bring me a phone, please.” she said, after he’d stepped briskly up to the table.

  The waiter disappeared for a moment, then immediately returned with a white telephone.

  “Thank you,” Imalia said. She dialed a number. “I’ll make the arrangements now,” she told Frank while she waited for an answer.

  “Good,” Frank said.

  “Hello? This is Ms. Covallo,” Imalia said into the receiver. “Get me Mr. Riviera, please. Hello, Tony? Someone will be dropping by the office this afternoon. He works for me. He’s clearing up a few things about Hannah. Do whatever he asks. Show him anything he wants to see. Yes. Yes. Fine. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone, motioned once again for the waiter, then had it taken away.

  “All right,” she said after he had gone. “Just ask for Tony Riviera. He’s been running things since Hannah’s death.”

  “Did he know her very well?”

  “As well as anyone,” Imalia said. “But I think Hannah lived very much on her own.” Her eyes widened somewhat, as if trying to gather in some distant additional light. “Some people are like mat.”

  Frank thought of a wooden chest with its stash of photographs. “It’s like she didn’t have a past.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The pictures she kept,” Frank said. “There weren’t any from when she was younger. Family portraits, that sort of thing.”

  A sudden intensity swept into Imalia’s face. “Yes, well, maybe she didn’t like her past,” she said crisply. “Do you like yours?”

  Frank did not answer, and Imalia continued to stare at him intently.

  “Do you know anything about mine?” she asked after a moment.

  “No.”

  “Well, suppose I give you a taste of it,” Imalia said, almost fiercely. Then she stood up. “Let’s go for a ride, Frank. I want to show you something.”

  The limousine was already waiting downstairs and Imalia led him to it quickly.

  “I wasn’t born on Park Avenue,” Imalia said as they headed southward down the wide boulevard. “The name tells everything. Covallo. Guinea. Wop. Greaseball.” A high, thready laugh broke from her. “Little Italy. That’s where I came from. The princess of Prince Street.” She turned her eyes toward the window. “If you had been brought up in New York, you’d know all about it.”

  She seemed to wait for him to ask a question, and when he didn’t she looked back toward him. “Things weren’t so bad. I don’t mean that. I grew up over a little social club, the kind where the old men sit and drink espresso and talk about the world, you know, alla siciliana.”

  Frank nodded.

  “I could have been a big fat Italian mama by now,” she added, this time almost coldly. “You know the type, stuffing vermicelli down the throats of my fat little husband and our fat little kids.” Her eyes narrowed into dark slits. “But not Imalia Covallo,” she said determinedly. “I wasn’t made to live like that, and then whine my life away to a fa
ther confessor the way my mother did.” She took a deep, tremulous breath, then called to the driver. “Joseph, One oh seven Prince Street.”

  She sat back and remained silent, almost sullen, until the limousine finally came to a halt in the heart of Little Italy.

  “We don’t have to get out,” she said. “I never get out.”

  She leaned toward the window and pointed to a small brick tenement. “That’s it,” she said.

  Frank gazed at the building silently.

  “Third floor,” Imalia said. “I used to sit out on that fire escape. My father was inside, chewing the last of his calamari. My mother was lighting votive candles. My brother and sister were romping around, driving everybody crazy. That’s when I’d sit out there and look out toward upper Manhattan and dream of it. I didn’t know what it was. But I knew I wanted it.” She smiled as she turned toward him. “Not everybody did. My brother, Angelo, he just wanted to be a punk for some local capo. And that’s exactly what he is. He’s got the alligator shoes to prove it. My sister wanted to see Jesus. And I guess she sees Him every day, she and the rest of the Carmelites.” She shook her head. “But I wanted something else.” Her hand swept out suddenly, indicating the luxurious interior of the limousine. “And I guess I got it.” She gave a final quick glance at the tenement, eased herself back into the seat and drew in a long slow breath. “Okay, Joseph.”

  The car started instantly, moved along the tight grid of streets, then headed back toward midtown.

  “I said that there was nothing really personal between Hannah and me,” Imalia said finally. “Do you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a way, I’m not sure that that’s entirely true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we weren’t close, that’s for sure,” Imalia said, “but there were times when I think she saw something in me that was like herself. I don’t know what it was. Maybe the way I’d sort of lost contact with my family. Evidently, she’d lost contact with hers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe that was it.”

  “Maybe.”

  She seemed on the brink of saying more, but stopped herself. “By the way,” she said, “we haven’t discussed your fee.”

  “It’s the standard,” Frank told her. “Around three fifty a day.”