Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5)

by J. J. Henderson

  "I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out." Lucy dropped her voice. "Did you ever see her get high?"

  "Patty? No way!"

  "So what makes you so sure she OD’ed then?"

  "I don't know. I mean, she was pretty wild in some ways. Hey, look, you're right. We should get out of here and really talk, grab a bite. Let me get my coat and tell Marietta I'm going."

  They found a soup and salad bistro down the block, took a table in the back, and ordered red wine, mushroom soup, and a Nicoise to share.

  "So what do you know that I don't?" Loretta said. "What's up?"

  "You ever meet a man named Zane Smithson, a friend of Patty's?"

  "Smithson? No."

  "Six feet plus, mid-forties, ridiculously handsome, said he worked on Wall Street, looked like a—"

  "You mean Smith Patterson!"

  "No, Zane Smithson. The guy she was dating when she—"

  "She kept going out with that creep?! Jesus, I told her he was—Pretty Boy, we called him. God, Patty was such a fool about men."

  "Now wait a minute, how do you know we're talking about the same..."

  "Look, I'll level with you. I introduced them—well, not exactly, but—have you ever heard of Laurie Ellen Jameson?"

  "Yes, of course. She's the stewardess—excuse me, flight attendant—who met the billionaire on a plane and ended up marrying him. She's on Page Six of the Post like every other day." The food arrived. They arranged it and began eating.

  "That's because of her parties. She has these ridiculously elaborate gatherings at her place on Park Avenue—a lot of celebrity types, high rent Eurotrash, aging rock stars, you know the scene—and we—I got invited because, well—I met her in the store, and she—her husband's—look, these rich old farts like to have some pretty girls around, OK? It's not like we're hustling, or anything, but you know, the chance to meet a millionaire socially doesn't come by all that often, and once in a while you find one who's actually nice, and maybe about to get a divorce or is even single and not gay, you never know. So anyway Laurie Ellen Jameson threw this party last May, and she came into the store and asked me if I wanted to come. She used to stop in all the time, we were friendly, so I figured why not, and—well, you know how Patty was always after the money men. So I called her and asked her to go with me. She had quit working again, she was always quitting, then coming back when she got bored. She was really good at sales so they kept hiring her. Needless to say we played dress up like mad for the party. Then we went our separate manhunting ways once we got there—you wouldn't believe this apartment, I swear to God there was so much marble I thought I was in Caesar's Palace. So anyways next thing I know I am meeting the most gorgeous man I've seen in many moons, and it was this guy Smith Patterson. We got to talking, and he took my number, and—well, I went out on one date with him, and all he wanted to do was—" she hesitated—"let's just say he was really kinky. A twisted fuck, if you get my meaning." She looked at Lucy. "I've done it a lot of different ways, Lucy, but this guy wanted to get into some weird shit. Anyways, it turned out he'd also talked up Patty at the same party, and gotten her number. When she told me she was going out with him I warned her off. Said stay away from Pretty Boy, Baby. That was the last time I talked to her. I think she was a little embarrassed that she liked the guy. But you know, I've been around Patty and her men, and she did put out that "hurt me" kind of vibe sometimes, don't you think?"

  "I guess. I don't know. Jesus, I couldn't stand most of the men she dated that I met. Including him. Look, she wasn't hurt or anything, I want you to understand that. When they found her I mean. Least not from what I heard. But she was loaded up on smack and coke, and tied up. With silk rope. Was that what Smithson wanted you to do?"

  "Rope and dope. Yeah, that was about where he wanted to take it. But I got the distinct feeling that was where his fun was going to start, not end, know what I mean? He had a real—I don't know, an evil gleam in his eye, when he got you alone. Scary motherfucker."

  "Who was—who is he, anyways?"

  "I don't know. One of those New York guys, running different games, different parts of town, different people, different parties. Look, he told me he was Smith Patterson, and told Patty he was, what did you say, Sam Smithson?"

  "Zane. Zane Smithson."

  "Well, there you go. He called himself different names to different people at the same party. A brazenly shifty dude, I would say. Maybe Laurie Ellen Jameson knows who he really is. That's where we met the creep. Damn, so you think he was the one that killed Patty?"

  "That's what I told the cops, but they haven't done a thing about it even though Patty was with him that night. But keep this to yourself anyways, eh?"

  "What, do I look like a gossip?"

  "No, but it's good material. And nobody knows where this guy is right now."

  "My lips are sealed."

  "How do I get through to the fabulous Mrs. Jameson?"

  "Call her up. I've got her private number at the store. Call me in half an hour and I'll give it to you." She checked her watch. "Gotta run. Diamonds to sell. I think Ivana the former Mrs. Trump is coming in this afternoon, and she likes all of us to be there to wait on her. Actually, I'd like to break her legs, but you know how it is. Gotta earn a living." She stood. "Ta ta, Lucy Ripken. You let me know what happens."

  "I'll be in touch in a little while for that number. And thanks."

  "Thank you for the soup. Later." She dashed. Lucy finished her glass of wine, fished The Times out of her bag, and worked on the crossword puzzle for half an hour. Then she called Lucette, and Loretta Sandusky gave her the phone number.

  She called Laurie Ellen Jameson's private cell number—so private that if Jameson found out where Lucy had gotten it, Loretta Sandusky would be fired immediately.

  A woman answered after one ring. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Mrs. Jameson. My name is Lucy Ripken and I'm a friend of Patricia Moody."

  She waited a few seconds. "Whom?"

  "Patricia Moody. She attended a party at your house several—"

  "I don't recognize her name or yours. Dozens—hundreds—of people come to my parties. Where did you get this phone number?" The accent was weirdly off in exactly the way you'd expect in a flight attendant turned billionaire's wife—midwestern flat overlaid with faux Anglification.

  "From her. Are you sure you don't recall meeting her? She was in the paper recently."

  "Moody, you say? Oh, yes, of course—the dead girl the other day. Charles told me she had been here, but I didn't recall seeing her. I meet so very many people."

  "There was a man at the same party at your house who called himself Zane Smithson, or Smith Patterson. A very handsome man in his forties who claimed to work on Wall Street. Apparently he met Patricia there."

  "As I said, Miss—Ripley, was it? I'm sorry, but there are hundreds of people in and out of my parties. Some are on the guest lists, others simply attend in the company of those I've invited. I couldn't possibly tell you—"

  "Of course, Mrs. Jameson. Of course. However, since I've got you on the phone, I wonder if you'd be interested in sitting for a portrait. I'm a photographer, and I'm shooting a series of pictures of women and their dogs in my studio downtown. I've heard you have a couple of wonderful Sharpeis."

  "That's very flattering, but I couldn't possibly find time for that. A downtown photographer, eh? Are you acquainted with my friend Billy Ritz? He's done a portrait of Charles and me and the dogs that is simply wicked."

  "Yes, I saw it in Vanity Fair." In a really ugly ass-kissing article about your husband's rapacious financial maneuvers, and how great it was that he made all this money and married you, the billion-dollar bimbo. How the hell else would I know about your stupid little dogs, lady? "But no, I don't know Mr. Ritz, although I've heard of him."

  "Well, if you know his work I'm sure you will agree that we have no need to sit for other portraits this year. He's simply brilliant. So: I would appreciate it if you would not call
on this phone ever again. It is a private and unlisted number, and I would hate to have to change it. Thank you, goodbye." She hung up, and so did Lucy.

  Billy Ritz named twice now, once before death, once after. Definitely a sign. Time to visit the photo star.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE PHOTOGRAPHER AT WORK

  Lucy took the R downtown to Prince and Broadway. She got home at 3:15. The Parkistan photo shoot was due to start at 6:00. She stripped to her underwear and crawled into bed, praying for a little sleep in advance of what she feared would be a grueling night. At 4:30 darkness was falling as she got up, having slept not at all, and began organizing her photo-gear: Mamiya medium format digital camera, tripods, lights, light stands, light meter, power packs, spare batteries and bulbs, extension cords, adapter plugs, slaves, and the rest of the location miscellany, organized, boxed, and bagged. The arrival of digital photography had cut the film and processing hassles out of the business, but there was still a lot of shit to maneuver on a photo shoot. At 5:00 she showered, fixed her face, and put on her uniform for a working evening: black jeans, black t-shirt, black leather jacket, black boots, and black beret. Red lipstick. Simon shouted up from the street at 5:30, and she tossed down a key. She walked the dog through a gridlocked snaggle of cabs and trucks while the 28-year old Simon, her six foot two inch, 180 pound photo assistant, lugged equipment down. By the time the hired car arrived at 5:45 Claud was back upstairs and she and Simon waited on the corner. Fifteen minutes and twenty bucks for a twenty block ride, but it beat watching a taxi meter ticking in a traffic jam, and she could bill it to the magazine.

  Lucy went in the unlocked front door while Simon unloaded. She hadn't been in the club since the night Patty died. Several hip-looking youngsters dressed in re-tooled Slavic military garb were cleaning up. In the prosaic light of set-up time, Parkistan looked downright shabby. She found the black turtleneck-clad, Gauloise-smoking Vadim by the bar, talking with a salesman in a suit and tie. "Try this," Vadim said to Lucy, by way of hello. He slid a half-full water glass across the bar at her. "He says it's better than Stoly. Tell me what you think."

  "Vodka? You expect me to drink vodka before a shoot? Sorry, I can’t do that."

  "All I wanted was an opinion," Vadim said. He was slender, hollow-eyed, darkly Mittel-European, pushing fifty, and looked it after fifteen years in the frontlines of the Manhattan club wars. Lucy had a friend who'd dated him once. He liked girls to pee on him. A real fun guy. "Never mind." He grabbed the glass and tossed the double shot back himself, said, "Aaah," and wiped his lips. "Not bad, Roscoe," he said. "But no way I'm going to go house with it. The Stoly stays. We do a better mark-up."

  "Just take a case, and see how fast it gets drunk," the man said.

  "Sure, sure," said Vadim. "Talk to Andy in the office." He turned to Lucy. "So, you are here to shoot for that fabulous magazine, what do you call it, Places?"

  "Spaces, Vadim. Spaces. Thanks for setting up early, by the way. I really appreciate..."

  "But you are going to put me on the cover, correct?"

  Lucy blanched. "On the cover? I never said...

  "Just joking. So where do you want to take my picture?"

  "I don't know. Maybe in the icon grotto. Or sitting at the bar. Let's walk through, I'll figure out my shots, and then we can decide. How much time do I have?"

  "We open at nine thirty, but it's empty till eleven. After that, forget it. Six months or a year from now this place will be an abandoned room, or maybe a Gap store, but right now there are five hundred people in Manhattan who believe it is of great importance that they are here every night from twelve to three."

  "Have you talked to Serge? Are he and what's his name going to be here?"

  "Alyosha. Yes, they are coming. They are very concerned that your pictures reflect the atmosphere, the ambience—not just the design."

  "Right. Well, I don't have a problem with that. Let's take a look around, eh?"

  They walked the perimeters of the main rooms, Lucy working out angles, planning compositions. She concentrated on the task at hand, remembering, trying not to remember, her last night in here. She and Patty had run into Kenzi Kawazuko, a performance artist friend and longtime downtown scenemaker, and the conversation had turned to clothes by Japanese designers—how they made them intentionally threadbare and ragged, with crooked, exposed seams and uneven hems. Deconstructed, your basic five thousand dollar dress. Grinning, Patty had said, "That's OK, cause I like it when men tear them off me anyways."

  Lucy had shaken her head, laughing it off as she always did with Patty, that bad girl.

  Here came a couple of pudgy lads, one short, the other shorter, in their late twenties, wearing matching black pants, red shirts, and brown Russian-style fur hats. They marched right up to Lucy. "Hello, you are Lucy Ripken. We are Kremlin I am Serge this is Alyosha hello Vadi how are you both I'm good yes." Serge was the taller of the two. Lucy shook his hand.

  "Yes," said Alyosha, and she shook his hand too.

  "Yes," Lucy said. "Yes indeed. Fine couple of rooms you've done here."

  "We are thanking you," said Alyosha.

  "Hello, boys," said Vadim. "Cigarettes?" He held out a pack of Gauloise.

  "But of course," said Serge as he and Alyosha helped themselves. "These Americans don't know how to smoke anymore. Now to light a cigarette here is illegal. But do it anyway, da, Vadim? It is very irritating don't you think?" He grinned at Lucy as Vadim lit his smoke.

  "Actually I quit six years ago," she said, the taste of the unfiltered cigarette she'd smoked a couple of days ago in Seattle coming back to her. She had reveled in every puff, even though it made her sick.

  "Now then, you are goink to shoot this way I hope not?" asked Serge. "This is not the right way I'm thinking."

  "No, just looking, Serge," Lucy said. "I was thinking more over here," she led the way across the room, "for an overview shot." She pointed, then made a frame with her hands. "See, it gets the bar, and that doorway, and those great posters—we can put a light on the wall to highlight them—and then come in closer to do some details around the bar."

  He held his own hands up, making a frame. "Yes, that is good, but I am not liking the idea of the extra lighting. I think it will be too bright and then the mood will not be working."

  "Maybe, but...Vadim, can you turn the house lights down to, you know, the level like when you're open?"

  "Sure. Give me a minute." He disappeared through a painted-out door.

  "So where did you find all the great Slavic style shirts and stuff?" Lucy asked. "The waitress uniforms are so cool."

  "I have a cousin in Moscow," said Serge. "He goes to the Arbat and buys."

  "Arbat?"

  "This is a pedestrian street in Moscow. Everybody sells there. You buy army coats, caviar, cigarettes, machine guns, vodka. The people sell everything."

  "Everybody needs money there," said Alyosha. "The people are not used to having changing all the time. They are frightened. Mafia run the show, or you starve or steal."

  "That is why we are here," said Serge. "Nobody can—there's no job for designers in Moscow, unless you have corporation money or work for the gangsters. And sometimes this is the same thing."

  "A mess, eh?"

  "The Communists had to go, but thirty years later many people are asking is this any better?"

  "We're glad to be here," said Alyosha. The light level dropped.

  "Now, you see it is too dark," Lucy said. "I need to throw a light on that wall."

  "No, this is the way is meant to look," said Serge. "This is right mood."

  "But look how dark it is! You can't even see the posters, Serge. There is no way...hey, Simon, just in time," she said. He'd been in the front room unpacking gear. "Bring the camera over here.”

  "How is this?" said Vadim, reappearing. "This is the level I use until about one, when I turn it down a notch or two."

  "Perfect, Vadi," said Serge. "This is how we shoot, Lucy Ripken."

>   "Sure," she said. Lucy shot an image and they had a look.

  "Come see, Serge," she said, as they peered into the camera at a black square. "This what you want?"

  "You don't know what you do, making this picture," he said, shaking his head. "Is too dark."

  "I know exactly what I do, Serge," she said. "This is what the pictures will look like if we don't add light."

  Serge and Alyosha huddled, urgently jabbering in Russian with occasional looks her way. After a few minutes Serge came over. "Put light there," he ordered, gesturing at the poster-covered wall. "Not where else."

  Lucy looked at him. "Here," she snapped. "Here's the camera." She held it out. "You know everything, so you place the lights and take the stinking picture, Serge."

  "Hey, take it easy, Luce," said Simon. "He's just..."

  "You are irritatable," Serge said. "But you have to understand..."

  "This is our work and we want only the best pictures to be made," said Alyosha. "We are not trying to—"

  "This is my work,” Lucy interrupted, “And I, too, am trying to make the best pictures. So why don't you let me?"

  "Hey, I got an idea," said Simon. "Why don't you shoot it both ways—your way and theirs?"

  "Yes, that is good idea," said Serge. "Make, how you say, compromise."

  Lucy crossed her arms on her chest. "Fine," she said. "But my way first, because I know what needs to be done. Get two of those lights ready, Simon." She stepped away from the camera. "You dumb fuck, Simon," she added under her breath. "Now we're gonna be here all night."

  Instead, she pushed Simon Stephens as hard as she dared, making him run the equipment from spot to spot. She managed to get three overviews and seven details by eleven o'clock, accommodating the Russkis by shooting with and without the added light. They finished the last details in the icon grotto by eleven-thirty, good timing because the grotto didn't get busy till after midnight, Vadim said, when the druggies arrived. Lucy sat Vadim down with half of Kremlin on each side, and had all three of them hold icons in front of their chests. "You got another fur hat anywhere, Vadim?" she asked. "It'd be great if you all three had them on."