by Ben Sanders
Marshall said, ‘What do you think he was into? Vialoux?’
Nevins drank his beer.
Marshall said, ‘He shouldn’t be dead over a seventy-k debt. We’ve established that already. And Frank Cifaretti just told me he’d wanted him alive to keep paying. But then he also said it’s his boss who’s had Ray killed, apparently.’
Nevins said, ‘Some people …’ He faded off, and then said, ‘Crises aren’t tidy, are they? Things fall down all over the place. Marriage, job, gambling, whatever …’
Saying it with a kind of dull resignation, and Marshall wondered if he had inside knowledge, his own story of how life had picked him up and thumped him on the rocks.
Nevins said, ‘I think whatever his trouble, he’d crossed a line bright enough, the debt couldn’t save him. They weren’t worried about getting back their seventy thousand. They just wanted him gone.’
Marshall didn’t answer, thought back to his run-in with D’Anton Lewis.
Open you up, cock to throat.
He wondered what Vialoux had been doing with him, whether a job for a guy like D’Anton could put you on a hitlist with the mob. D’Anton seemed to consider murder a possibility. Why else did he need three bodyguards watching him cross a sidewalk?
Marshall said, ‘What are you going to do when you retire? Cold turkey, or do you have a P.I. gig lined up?’
Nevins moved his tongue around his cheek for a second. Marshall watched him scanning the room. Two a.m. and the detective protocols still running in his brain, looking for detail that would mean something. ‘Did you get anything out of D’Anton?’
‘No. He told me to stay away from him. And then Loretta Flynn came and told me the same thing.’
He picked up a coaster from the coffee table and centered it under Nevins’ bottle. In general, he preferred straight edges, because they lent themselves straightforwardly to a condition of order: parallel, or perpendicular. Coasters were an exception. It was a question of complimentary geometry. A circular coaster, with its edge concentric to the edge of the thing supported, was a deeply pleasing arrangement.
Nevins said, ‘They’ll be looking for you now. Cifaretti’s people. You’re somebody’s full-time project, I guarantee it.’
‘Cifaretti’s a full-time project, too. For his dentist.’
Nevins’ beer was three-quarters full, but he left it on the desk and moved to the door.
Marshall said, ‘People have taken morbid interest in me before. And here I am, drinking beer on a Friday night.’
‘Yeah. But it’s like Russian Roulette, isn’t it? How many times can you spin and not pay? These guys have long memories, and after Tuesday, I can’t help you anymore. Think about that.’
‘I’ve only known you for a day. I haven’t developed a dependency just yet.’
Nevins opened the door.
Marshall said, ‘Are we going to keep doing things in parallel, or are we going to help each other?’
‘Up to you. Is there anything else you need to tell me?’
Marshall said, ‘You weren’t just going to sit there all night looking at a store with its blinds down. You saw me go in, and thought you’d see what happened. Well, as I say, I’m happy to confirm, the suspect is one of Mikey Langello’s guys. I’ll keep you updated with my progress. But maybe in the meantime you could call around, see if anyone knows where he is.’
Nevins went out, and the door seemed to swing shut behind him on its own accord. Marshall stood at the window and watched him get into the yellow VW and drive away. He stayed there a minute, finishing his beer, and then he turned out the light and went upstairs.
He made it halfway. He stood in the dark with his head level with the landing, and then he turned and came back down and switched on the desk lamp. The piece Nevins had placed on the puzzle was three inches up from the base of the frame. Marshall excised it carefully, lifting it with a thumbnail, no disruption to its neighbors, and returned it to the reserves. Then he switched off the light and went to bed.
SIXTEEN
What remained of Vialoux’s office was on Sixth Avenue over in Park Slope, the ground floor of a three-story redbrick building, near the corner with Fifth Street. Marshall got there a little before nine thirty on Saturday morning. To the left were brownstone town houses, and to the right, on the corner, was a store advertising jewelry and watch repairs: Lowenstein’s.
Vialoux’s frontage was boarded up with plywood, and some enlightened soul had already thought to illustrate it with genital-themed graffiti. As if the arson just wasn’t quite enough as an indignity.
Marshall backed up to the curb and surveyed the upper windows. No one visible. According to the gold lettering on the glass, the middle floor was an architect’s office, and the top was an accountant’s. He saw a light on in the jewelry place next door, but no one answered his knock.
There was a laundromat on the corner diagonally opposite. He crossed the intersection and went inside. Two women were at a work bench beyond the counter, folding clothes and chatting merrily in Spanish over the bored drone of tumble dryers. One of the women saw him and came over with a smile and a sing-song good morning.
‘Laundry, or questions?’
He smiled, caught a scent of bleach that prickled through his whole airway. ‘Sorry?’
‘You look like police.’ She nodded at Vialoux’s office, visible through the window behind him. ‘I saw you just now, looking at the damage.’
‘Did you see what happened?’
She shook her head. ‘It was during the night. We close at nine thirty. Wednesday, we open late, someone’s here till eleven. Other than that, nine thirty.’
Marshall said, ‘Do you remember people coming or going? Last couple of weeks in particular?’
She shrugged. One earlobe had been stretched and hollowed out by way of a plastic hoop, perhaps an inch in diameter. Marshall wasn’t sure why people undertook such projects, but it was an impressive achievement given the small size of the opposite lobe. She said, ‘Only since the fire there’s been anyone over there, really. Police, I guess. Fire Department people.’
‘Have the police talked to you?’
She looked him up and down. ‘Thought I was talking to one now.’
Marshall shook his head. ‘I’m a friend of the owner.’
She said, ‘There were a couple came in yesterday, asked if we’d noticed anything. But …’ She trailed off, shrugged. ‘It’s a street, isn’t it? Ninety-nine percent of stuff, you don’t even see it.’
‘Did they take anything from his office?’
Shrug. ‘People were in and out most of yesterday. So yeah, maybe.’
The woman at the bench said, ‘I saw them take a file cabinet. All black from the fire but it must’ve been full of something. They had like three guys trying to move it.’
‘Cops took it?’
‘Yeah. Cops took it.’
Marshall said, ‘You ever see the owner? Ray Vialoux?’
The woman at the bench said, ‘I seen him now and then.’ She looked up, amused. ‘I don’t understand, we’re right across the street, we do dry cleaning. Why does he have to wear a crinkled suit all the time? Next time you see him, you ask him.’
‘When did you last see him?’
The woman at the bench said, ‘That was the one thing I knew, when they asked. I saw him Tuesday night.’
No hesitation.
She said, ‘That’s my closing night. I was locking up, heading out, I saw him going in his door. Only reason I saw, it was nighttime, he was right there under his security light. He had kind of a package with him.’
‘What kind of package?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark. Like one of those … maybe like a FedEx envelope?’
She mimed the dimensions.
Marshall said, ‘So ten-inch-by-ten, something like that?’
‘Yeah, well. Whatever this big is. It was an envelope.’
‘All right. Thanks.’
‘And now we get
to ask you a question.’
‘All right.’
‘What’s he doing in there that police asked more questions about who’s coming and going than if we saw people with gas and matches?’
Marshall shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
All three of them turned and looked out the window, like the boarded shop front could illuminate the topic.
Marshall said, ‘You ever seen a little guy, dark hair combed straight back, smiles a lot?’
He got two shrugs in response. The woman at the bench resumed her work. As far as Marshall could tell, pants were folded manually, but T-shirts were handled by way of a plastic board, comprising a number of hinged panels. You laid the shirt on the board, and then operated the panels in logical succession, and the resulting folded garment was a thing of dimensional perfection.
Marshall said, ‘Where can I get one of those?’
They sold them for thirteen-ninety, plus tax. He paid, and they bagged it for him, and he headed off along Sixth, looking for coffee. He found a place a few blocks away. They did cappuccinos, but like the coffee shop over in Sunset Park, they hadn’t heard about flat whites yet. He stood in line and couldn’t help feeling he was the odd one out. Everyone was young, very good looking, and dressed in Lululemon. Most people had an Apple product of some description. He took his coffee to-go, and walked back toward Vialoux’s office, thinking he’d try a second time to talk to the jewelry people. When he got back to the corner with Fifth Street, he found Jordan Mora standing on the sidewalk, looking at the plywood.
She said, ‘Spray paint’s a nice touch, isn’t it?’
SEVENTEEN
She was in that tan coat Marshall liked, the one she’d worn yesterday when he met her on the street up in Jackson Heights. Jeans and knee-length boots and a turtleneck sweater. Hair a little messy in the breeze.
She said, ‘Have you looked inside?’
‘No. I should’ve brought a claw hammer …’
And he should tell her right now what had happened yesterday, his run-in with D’Anton, and the denizens of the bagel shop. It might make her re-think her association. He checked the street, saw people in activewear, people pushing strollers, people enjoying their Saturday in non-threatening fashion. He’d be OK for now.
She said, ‘What?’
Light and amused, like she sensed some kind of punchline coming.
Marshall shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘All right.’
She moved past him and knocked at the door of the jewelry place. The window displays were empty. Black felt shelves with nothing on show. But the lights were still on, and beyond the counter, a door was open to a back room.
Jordan knocked again, and a woman came out of the backroom. She unlocked the front door, opened it wide enough to put an apologetic face in the gap.
‘Hey. Sorry, we’re actually closed.’
‘Oh, sure. We just wanted to ask you about the fire next door …’
‘I, ah … OK.’ She leaned out for a better angle on Vialoux’s office, as if confirming its burnt status. ‘Are you police?’
Jordan said, ‘No. Friends of the owner. Did you happen to see anything?’
The woman shook her head. She was fiftyish and heavyset, densely freckled. Curly red hair in a ponytail that didn’t quite achieve total anchorage. A few errant strands were springing forward, antennae-like. ‘No, this is my dad’s place, I just came to pick up a couple things.’ She allowed herself an eyeroll. ‘If I can find anything.’
The expression seemed to invite complicity. Jordan smiled.
She said, ‘Look, sorry to hold you up—’
‘No, no. It’s fine. It looks terrible, what happened. Lucky they managed to control it when they did, it could’ve been … yeah. Could’ve been something else.’
The door was closing slowly, the woman’s smile growing as the gap in turn narrowed: defense against a charge of rudeness.
Jordan said, ‘It’s just – they need a couple photos for the insurance and I said I could do it, but obviously we can’t get in the front with it all boarded up. I have a key, I thought maybe we could go through the back?’
The woman had to think about it for a second, but Jordan was hitting her with a broadening smile of her own, and the woman said, ‘I guess if you’re quick …’
‘Thank you so much.’
They stepped inside, and the woman locked the door behind them. ‘I was trying to find a couple of his prescriptions. God knows why he buries them at work. You should see the paperwork in that office, honestly. Here, come through …’
She led them into the back office. There was a scarred old wooden bench with lamps and magnifying lenses on articulated arms, and a set of tiered wooden shelves holding ranks of miniature tools – tiny saws, and picks and pliers made from blackened metal.
They went out into a rear courtyard shared between the jeweler and Vialoux’s office next door. It was part of a long stretch of outdoor space, concealed from the street and formed from the adjoining rear yards of the town houses fronting Fifth and Sixth. There was a metal chair outside Vialoux’s rear door, and a beer bottle crammed with cigarette butts. The chair was warped and rusted through in a couple places, as if showing the strain of holding up Vialoux and his problems.
The glass in the rear door had either melted or shattered, but it hadn’t been boarded up: no public access, no need. Jordan reached through to free the lock and then stepped back as she pulled open the door. She turned to the woman and gave a smile that Marshall read as intending to convey finality.
‘Thank you so much. We’ll only be a minute.’
The woman looked hesitant now, as if she sensed that having granted frictionless access to a private business, she had some kind of duty of continued stewardship.
‘I’ll umm … I haven’t seen a burned building before. Might as well take a look …’
Marshall followed the two of them inside. It reeked of smoke. The floor was covered with a soggy black pastry of ash and charred debris, maybe half an inch thick, perceptibly elastic underfoot. Jordan led the way through a narrow rear hallway, bathroom to one side and a kitchenette to the other, and then on into the main office space. Faint illumination from the white shards of glow between the plywood panels on the windows.
The jeweler’s daughter said, ‘Gosh. It’s something, isn’t it?’
Jordan played her phone light over the room. By the front door were the remains of a small reception counter, wood panels gone and just the steel frame extant. Vialoux’s desk was in a similar state. Narrow metal skeleton presiding over a shallow pile of ashes, and the L-shape ruins of what would’ve once been a laptop computer. Against the wall was a file cabinet, matt-black with soot, drawers hanging open. Marshall checked each in turn. Whatever paperwork had been stored was now a modest pile of ash in each drawer. The file dividers had been reduced to feeble strips of metal. He toed about under the desk. The sprung bracket of a stapler. Long horsehair splays of denuded copper wire. A small picture frame, four-by-six, nothing left but a narrow metal edge. He wondered who or what Vialoux had kept there on his desk with him, whether it gave him any help or comfort in the last few weeks, or if its value had been lost before the fire. He moved closer to the door, heard glass crunching under his boots.
He asked Jordan for the phone light, and she handed it over. Marshall shone it at the floor. The slurry at his feet purplish in the glare, a whorled sheen of oil on the water. He toed around carefully, found the edge of a piece of glass and levered it up with the lip of his boot sole. He brought the light in closer, studying the composition of the mess, saw a half-inch of charred detritus covering the glass. He dug around some more, widening the hole, keeping the light on his work, and for a brief moment saw blue industrial carpet before the soot-black water seeped in.
He said, ‘I think I’ve seen what I need to see.’
When they got outside to the courtyard, the jeweler’s daughter was suddenly talkative again, perhaps conversation
ally repressed by the vibe of the office, and now making up for lost observations. She told Jordan it was a good reminder of the importance of smoke alarms, and she was going to check her father’s system was working, and her friend Heather had been doing up a place in Prospect Park, and a blowtorch had been left briefly unattended, and that was almost a tragedy too, and everyone was just one idle mistake from something you can regret, big time. Then something occurred to her, and it made her stop. ‘All of this stuff, it’s replaceable, but …’ She shook her head, frowning, closing in on pithy insight, bedrock truth: ‘You can buy another office, but you can’t buy another life. You know?’
Jordan reiterated her appreciation, and they went out through the jeweler’s shop, and the red-haired woman told them to be safe, and saw them off with a smile and a click of the lock.
Marshall said, ‘Do you think she noticed we didn’t take any photos?’
‘Yeah. That’s a point.’ She stood looking at him. ‘So what’s the theory?’
He said, ‘Let’s sit down somewhere.’
EIGHTEEN
They walked to the coffee place Marshall had found on Sixth and sat amidst the Apple-and-Lululemon crowd at a table by the window: Marshall with his second cappuccino of the day, Jordan with a chai latte or something. She was quarter-profile to him, shoulder to the window, patient and reflective as she sipped, maybe a little amused as she watched Marshall arrange his cash: bills tamped square and with a single, crisp fold at the midpoint – transverse, obviously – denominations in ascending order, outside to in. He leaned sideways to slip the cash in his pocket – the motion flashing him back two nights to his meeting with Vialoux, that same action affording a second’s prior warning of the looming and mortal threat – and Jordan said, ‘Are you going to tell me now what you think, or do you need some more quiet brooding?’
Marshall said, ‘They broke in because they were looking for something. Obviously. And they must’ve found it. I talked to the women in the laundromat. They said the police took a file cabinet with them yesterday. They wouldn’t bother doing that if it was full of ash. Which means whoever hit Vialoux’s office took the time to open one file cabinet, and not the other. And why would they do that, unless they’d found what they were looking for?’