by Richard Vine
“In the belly of the art world beast? By all means, as long as the place is safe for Melissa.”
“I’ll be right upstairs, if that helps. Do you think she’d like being a SoHo girl?”
“Oh, in most ways she already is.”
I offered Angela some very attractive terms.
“God, yes,” she said. “I have to tell Missy right away.”
Smiling, she squeezed my left arm, air-kissed me, and headed over toward Lexington to hail a cab.
Walking outside, I spotted Hogan easily in the covey of mourners on Madison Avenue. With a slight tension in his shoulders, he was leaning against the museum’s retaining wall, talking to a cute little intern from, I think, Metro Pictures. His paunch was discreetly sucked in.
I found a spot on the sidewalk, well away from the traffic, and called Don on my cell, telling him to reserve the fourth floor of the Wooster Street building when it came vacant in August.
“Are you sure?” he said. “I’ve got a dozen brokers interested already.”
“Never mind. I’ve found a tenant for it.”
“What’s the rate?”
“Five thousand a month.”
“Very funny. How much?”
“I’m serious. Don’t worry; you’re not on commission.”
“Jack, come on, we’re talking twenty-four hundred square feet.”
“She’s a friend—an artist with a kid.”
“You’ve got more friends than money right now.”
“That’s my problem, not yours.”
Once Hogan saw that I was off the phone, he finished his chat with the girl and sauntered over. Before he spoke, he wiped the sides of his head with a handkerchief.
“It’s a great world you live in,” he said.
“It has its attractions.”
“I mean, basically, it’s hordes of young art babes, some fairies, and you—right?”
“More or less. After a while, the girls get to be a duty, a second job.”
Hogan shook his bright head. “No wonder Philip Oliver can’t keep his zipper shut.”
“Is that what Angela told you?”
“That’s what everyone tells me. Starting with you.”
It took me a second to realize that Hogan had devoted serious thought to Philip’s infidelity. Around SoHo, it didn’t seem like a particularly notable trait.
“Paul Morse followed Philip and Claudia all the way down with his camera,” Hogan reported.
“Paul records everything in the art world.”
“Yeah. Everything to do with Amanda and Claudia, anyhow. I asked some people here about him. He’s the same guy who was working the camera when Mandy barged into Claudia’s group show a few months ago. That kind of thing could make a nice Italian girl angry.”
“You don’t really suspect Claudia, do you?” I asked.
Hogan half-laughed. “I suspect everybody, until I can prove otherwise.”
“Sounds like a swell way to live.”
“You have your burdens, Flash. I have mine.”
“And what about Angela—does she pass inspection?”
“So far, yeah. A few hundred people saw her at that Katonah Museum shindig on the night of May fourth. The nanny had the day off, coming instead for the evening, but the gardener says Angela was definitely at the house in the afternoon. He’s just a little shaky on the exact time he first saw her there. Because of the rain, he was working in the barn. That bothers me some, since the murder was around one, and you can get from SoHo to Westchester, door to door, in about an hour—less, if you push it. Or maybe a little more in bad weather or traffic. Either way, there was plenty of time. But, honestly, if Angela wanted to do Mandy in, I think you’re right, she would have offed the lady a long time ago.”
“Probably so, when the hurt was raw. Not, what?—nine or ten years later.”
“Right,” Hogan said. “Though sometimes hate festers. There are people who enjoy their jealousy, in a perverse way, you know. It pumps adrenaline through them like nothing else—makes them hyper-alert, hyper-vigilant. Believe me, that cheap thrill accounts for half the murders I deal with.”
“Which leaves the other half,” I said. “Have you considered that there’s no love lost between Angela and Claudia?”
Hogan looked at me like I had suddenly become a bit less of a dolt. “What are you saying?”
“Just that Angela might want to frame Phil’s new girlfriend.”
“What would she gain?”
“Satisfaction. Claudia is the second woman, after Mandy, that Angela has good reason to despise. And Angela doesn’t suffer offenses lightly.”
“I thought Angela was a friend of yours.”
“She is. So why did she let me think the nanny was working on the day of the murder? It’s one thing to have friends, Hogan; it’s another thing to have illusions.”
He nodded, his gaze going off somewhere away from me. We both know something about the hidden costs of friendship.
“So what’s up with Angela?” Hogan said. “Showing up here. Is she still carrying a torch for her lost husband or something?”
“Maybe. She wouldn’t give up on him back then, even when Philip wasn’t keeping his end of the bargain. ‘These days, I think I’m married for both of us,’ she used to say.”
“Some women never wise up.”
Hogan paused to exchange a quick wave with the departing intern.
“Working in Homicide gives you the big picture,” he said, turning back. “I’ve seen marriages for money, marriages for social position, marriages for a green card or working papers. Then there are the love matches, the catastrophes.”
“Spoken like a true husband.”
“Well, at least Philip and Amanda were companions to the end—in a way.”
“How’s that?”
“For all their spats and jealousy, they went down the same path. They both took it in the head. One fast, the other one slow.”
I couldn’t laugh. “We’ve got to find the shooter,” I said.
“My guess, this killer was no off-the-street intruder. It hardly ever is.”
“Where do we start then?”
“By keeping a careful eye on Claudia and Angela. I’ve had worse duty.”
“And Paul Morse?”
“You bet. Think close, Jack. It’s usually someone very close to the victim.”
“Probably someone with easy access to the apartment?”
“That’s right.” He gave me a quick slap on the back. “Someone like you, for instance.”
That was Hogan. Always joking around.
19
On Saturday, Angela came by to look at the rental space in my building. She had Melissa in tow, and the three of us walked the length of the apartment from the tall windows on Wooster Street, back through the broad living area, past the kitchen island, to the three rear bedrooms and the expansive utility space, where I thought Angela could keep a few pieces on hand to show visitors.
“Perfect,” she said as we made our way toward the entrance again. “Melissa, what do you say? Could you have fun here and do your studies?”
“I could if Uncle Jack would help me.”
“I haven’t studied for a very long time, Missy.”
“It would be good for you, then. And you already know how to have fun. Mom told me so.”
With a couple of casual signatures, Angela and I finalized the agreement, and I suggested that we all go to lunch at Félix.
“Lovely idea,” Angela said. “But would the two of you mind going without me? I have to dash off to the Bradford School to finish the paperwork. You can take care of Melissa for a little while, can’t you, Jack?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much practice.”
“Well, don’t be afraid. The little devils can smell fear in a second. Right, pumpkin? Just keep her amused for a couple of hours.”
“What does she like to do?”
“Oh, just feed her and take her shopping. You certainly know ho
w to do that.”
Angela bent down to peer directly into Melissa’s eyes. “Don’t be difficult,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly, and I don’t want to find Uncle Jack tied up and locked in a trunk.”
“Can’t I play any games?”
“Yes, you can play at being a lady.”
“Ugh.”
Angela disappeared into the elevator, tossing a quick “you’re a dear, Jack” over her shoulder, and then quite suddenly I was alone with the child. Melissa turned and sized me up. Without Angela’s moderating presence, I felt like a calf with two heads.
“Where do you live?” the girl asked.
“Just one floor higher. On the top.”
“That doesn’t make you any better than us.”
“No, it just means I’m your landlord. Most people would say that makes me worse.”
The girl and I rode down to the street in silence, cautiously eyeing each other. Melissa was wearing sandals, a pair of white Capri pants, and a striped red-and-white pullover. Her hair was radiantly blond, as only a youngster’s can be.
When we emerged into the open air, the street throbbed with colors from the midday crowd, most of them day-trippers. I tried to get Missy to go somewhere sedate for a salad and quiche, but all she wanted was hot dogs from a vendor’s cart at the corner of West Broadway and Spring.
“I’m not sure your mother would approve.”
“I don’t care. You’re the boss now. Please, please, Uncle Jack.”
Three schoolboys crowded up to the serving window ahead of us.
“Dorks,” Melissa said aloud. “Boys are so creepy.”
They all glanced at her, and one looked back a second time. “Hi,” he said.
Missy—half-turning, granting the kid no response—took my hand.
Once the boys got their food and clomped away, laughing in honks, we ordered four hot dogs and two cans of Coke. There was nowhere to sit. Gently, as we walked along, Melissa helped me handle the lunch items, sometimes taking the elbow of my bad arm while we checked out the windows of the boutiques on West Broadway and the smaller side streets. The girl had very definite opinions about the clothes and shoes displayed at Dolce & Gabbana, Vivienne Westwood, Giorgio Armani, and the other fashion outposts that were steadily transforming SoHo from an art neighborhood into a high-end shopping mart. Allowing for gradations, the major ranks in Melissa’s critical hierarchy seemed to be “yucko,” “cool,” and “totally salsa.”
“You have a good eye for these rags,” I told her. It was not an empty compliment.
“I know. I’m going to be a model when I grow up.”
“That’s a noble aspiration.”
“My mom doesn’t think so. She says it’s a horrid idea.”
“Does she?”
“ ‘Horrid’—that’s her word. Why can’t she talk like regular people?”
“Well, she’s British, you know. English is her second language.”
Melissa giggled.
“But if you become a model you’ll have creepy boys looking at you all the time.”
“That’s OK. When you’re really beautiful, you can make them do whatever you want.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody had to tell me. I watch TV.”
“Do you have your whole career planned out?”
“No, first I have to get really beautiful. I’m very pretty now, so that’s a good start. In about five years, I’ll be like a major babe. I’m already way cuter than my mom.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true. Anybody can see it.”
“Sometimes, Missy, being kind is more important than telling the truth.”
“That’s the way old people think.”
“Apparently so.”
“Anyway, I just have to get a little bit hotter each year. It won’t be too hard.”
“Then what?”
“Then whatever I want.”
Our walk took us past the corner building where the Olivers had lived. I tried to distract Melissa by pointing out several gold and silver necklaces and a Gucci handbag in a shop window on the ground floor across the street, a choice boutique with about six dresses on a rack and a jewelry counter to one side near the door. But my efforts were to no avail. The girl had her own agenda.
“Let’s go up,” she said. “There must be a really humongous blood stain and stuff.”
“It wouldn’t be good for your digestion.”
I steered Melissa quickly past the Prince Street entrance. “Besides, I don’t have the keys with me now.”
“I do.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not silly; you’re silly. Daddy gave me a whole set for when I came to visit on weekends.”
I swore to myself with annoyance. My tenants are prone to dispensing extra keys like party favors—to friends, drivers, relatives, lovers. Luxury renters all want to be secure, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience them in the least. Some have even been known to make spare copies for delivery boys from Gourmet Garage. It drives Don crazy. He saw to it that the elevator keys for the Prince Street building are hard to match and that each is clearly stamped “Do Not Duplicate.” You can imagine how long that slowed up someone like Philip Oliver.
Forgoing a lecture, I took Melissa away from the murder scene to my gallery, where she was happy to surf the Internet while I made a few calls.
“Did you hear what Tom Cruise did last night?” she asked. “How do you spell Rwanda?”
When Laura returned from lunch, she stuck her head in the back office to say hello. The young visitor made her scowl quickly, until Laura remembered to be patronizing and nice.
“Whose little girl are you?” she asked.
“My daddy’s. Two days a week.”
“Her mother is Angela Oliver,” I explained. “I’m her godfather.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Melissa seemed suddenly puzzled.
“Do you know what that word means?” I asked her.
“It has ‘god’ in it. So I guess it means you’re like a daddy, only you won’t ever go away.”
“Don’t be too hard on your father. He’s doing his best. Have you seen what’s happening to him now?”
“Uh-huh, he’s crazy. Everybody knows that. Mom says he has a degenerate brain.”
Laura bit her lip.
“It’s called a degenerative brain disease,” I told Melissa.
“I know, but Mom likes to say it the other way.”
Moving near the girl, I bent down to have a better look at her face. “When you’re alone together, just the two of you, does your daddy ever act, you know, not crazy anymore? Is he ever just himself? Normal?”
Melissa sighed. “Who can tell? My friends and I talk about our flaky parents all the time. My one friend, Julie, her folks aren’t even divorced, but her dad is stranger than anybody. Sometimes, he tries on Julie’s mom’s clothes, but they’re way too small.”
Shaking her head, Melissa looked at me with a serious, knit-brow expression. “Grown-ups are all kind of messed up in one way or another, don’t you think?”
Laura smiled broadly, guiltily, and excused herself to get back to work.
Sitting down on the black leather couch, I asked Missy if she knew what had happened between her parents long ago.
“Daddy loved Mandy more than he did Mom and me. So he left.”
“It’s not that simple. Your daddy loves you very much. He told me.”
“He told me, too. But he still went away. When you really love somebody you don’t go away. You want to be with them all the time. Nobody makes you. You just want to.”
“Sometimes it’s more complicated than that. Sometimes you love two people at once.”
“Then you have to choose.”
I got up and went to the coffee maker and poured myself half a cup. Steam rose off the dark surface, and I watched the wisps twist and dissipate before I turned back to Missy.
“You’re right,” I said. “It took me a few extra years to figure that one out.”
“Why? I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
“It’s a common mistake about me. Stick around and you’ll get over it fast.”
Melissa wiggled herself off the chair and traipsed over to stand near my side.
“You’re funny,” she said.
“I’m glad you think so, sweetheart. Funny is much harder than smart.”
“That’s because you have to be smart first to be funny.”
“How did you get so clever?” I said.
“Practice. My mom asks loads of questions, too.”
“Like what?”
“Like if daddy ever talks about other ladies, besides Aunt Mandy and Claudia.”
“We’re all curious about that.”
She scowled at me.
“Sorry.” I sipped the hot coffee. “It’s terrible for you to be in the middle of all this at your age.”
“I’m not so young. I’m almost a teenager.”
“Really?”
“In five and a half weeks, I’ll be twelve. It’s practically the same thing.”
“I see. Guess times have changed since I was in the sixth grade.”
“Seventh, next fall.”
A steady click of heels announced Laura’s return. She carried some loan forms for me and a paper cup of hot chocolate for Melissa.
“How quaint,” I smiled. “Here we are, just like a little family.”
“In your dreams,” Laura said. “I just figured you were probably being a bad host.” She looked around disapprovingly. “I’m going to need this room in about fifteen minutes. Our favorite German client is coming in.”
I winked at Melissa. “Let’s go, sweets, money rules. We don’t want to impede the forward march of art history, do we?”
Laura strode away down the hall, each step sounding like the clink of gold coins dropping into a sack. She was wearing four-inch spike heels and a cropped black skirt. I knew she must be about to close a deal. Laura’s legs have sold more art than half the galleries in SoHo.