Name Dropping

by Jane Heller

  It was well after one o’clock in the morning by the time Bill and I finally left Janice’s. I was drained, spent, absolutely wiped out, but I was no longer conflicted over whether or not Bill was telling me the truth—about himself, about Bob Levin, all of it.

  To help erase my doubts, he had given me the home phone number of the real manager of Denham and Villier’s New York store—the German-accented man I had seen in Bill’s office the first time I’d stopped by. He confirmed both that Bill had been hired as the store’s private security investigator and that the stolen brooch was currently in a special vault—a vault to which neither Ms. Knapp nor Ms. Davis had access.

  After that call came the call to Bill’s ex-wife, who was kind enough to corroborate his police background but couldn’t resist taking a swipe at him. “If I were you, honey, I’d wear a bullet-proof vest to sleep,” she said snidely. “When you’re with Bill Harris, you never know who’s gonna crawl out of a hole and bite ‘cha.” I thanked her for taking the time to speak to me so late in the evening and chalked her comments up to sour grapes.

  “What happens now?” I asked wearily as Bill and I rode back to his apartment in a taxi. “Do I ever get to go home or will Bob Levin’s henchmen be there waiting for me?”

  “I have no idea. They’ve already checked your apartment and your purse and still haven’t found the brooch,” he said. “The problem is, they know you can trace it back to Levin, whether they find it or not. And that puts you in the hot seat.”

  “Swell.”

  “So you’ll stay at my place for a while, okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. I was numb at this point.

  “And you’ll quit school, take a leave of absence or something.”

  “What?” I was no longer numb.

  “You’ll tell the director at Small Blessings that you’ve got a medical emergency, a family emergency, whatever you want.”

  “Not a chance, Bill.”

  “Think about it.”

  “No, you think about it. My job is just as important to me as yours is to you.” I was feeling feisty, suddenly; wide awake; pumped with adrenaline. I appreciated the seriousness of the situation, but I wasn’t sitting out the rest of the school year, no sir. Fischer Levin needed me more than ever, and I needed my job more than I realized. What’s more, Levin’s goons weren’t going to come after me in the classroom and put the guy’s own son in danger, were they?

  “I’m trying to protect you, Nancy.”

  “Fine. Then why aren’t you bringing in the police? You’ve got a suspect now, not only in the Denham thefts but in the other Nancy Stern’s murder. Why aren’t you going straight to Detective Reynolds and letting him handle the case from here on? I’d be protected then, wouldn’t I?”

  “I’ve already talked to Reynolds,” said Bill. “The guy’s got total tunnel vision, plus he’s not the most communicative person I’ve ever met. He’s stuck on his own theories about who killed your neighbor and he essentially told me to butt out. So that’s what I’m doing.”

  “You’re saying Detective Reynolds doesn’t even know about Bob Levin, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I’m keeping Levin’s name to myself until I’ve identified the rest of his buddies.”

  “And how do you propose to do that, big shot?”

  Bill smiled. “By being very smart.”

  Well, all right. He was smart, smart enough to have fooled me about who he really was. But I was smart too. After all, hadn’t I fooled him about who I really was?

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked, sensing something was.

  I straightened my posture. “I want to help you get Levin and his ‘nest,’ as you referred to them earlier.”

  “Nancy,” said Bill with a rather patronizing sigh. “You’re a nursery school teacher. You’re not trained to—”

  “Listen to me,” I interrupted. “My life is at stake. That gives me more than a passing interest in catching Levin and company, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would,” he conceded.

  “Besides which, I’m Fischer Levin’s teacher. That gives me more than a passing interest in seeing him emerge from all this unscathed, or at least relatively unscathed.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ve decided that you and I are going to work as a team.”

  Bill tried to squelch another smile. “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t be afraid to work with me? I mean, we’re not talking about fun and games here. Catching bad guys is not for the fainthearted.”

  “I’m not fainthearted,” I said. “In other words, I’m not your ex-wife, Bill.”

  Before he could respond, the taxi arrived at his building. He paid the fare and escorted me up to his apartment.

  We made love all weekend. Well, not every second of the weekend. Personally, I find it hard to believe people who claim to have nonstop sex; it’s simply not possible, given our other needs, so let me clarify and say that we made love several times over the course of the weekend. To be honest, I think the revelation that Bill was in law enforcement as opposed to retailing was a turn-on for me. Maybe I was one of those women with a cop-cowboy fantasy but never realized it. What I did realize was that the minute Bill showed me his gun—his piece—I was ready for action. Even more so than usual.

  “You don’t look like a cop,” I said while we were resting up after a particularly acrobatic encounter.

  “No? What does a cop look like?” said Bill in a bemused tone.

  “A marine,” I said. “And don’t ask me what a marine looks like. I have a specific image in my mind and it’s very effective in terms of arousal.”

  Bill laughed. “Well, for your information, you don’t look like a preschool teacher.”

  “No? What does a preschool teacher look like?”

  “A nurse. And don’t ask me what a nurse looks like. I have a specific image in my mind and it’s very effective in terms of arousal.”

  I wrapped my legs around Bill’s. “I think we should fix up your marine with my nurse.”

  “You name the place.”

  “I’ll point to the place.”

  And so it went. Throughout the entire weekend, as I’ve indicated.

  By Sunday night, we had not only increased our carnal knowledge of each other, we had agreed that I would help Bill catch the bad guys.

  “Okay,” he said, as we huddled together in bed. “Our first objective is to find out when there’s a meeting.”

  “A meeting between Levin and his accomplices?”

  “Exactly. As I’ve said, we want to nail everybody in the group, which probably includes a cutter and a setter and a polisher, plus a fence and a couple of mopes.”

  “Mopes?”

  “They’re the guys that get their hands dirty breaking into apartments, snatching purses, handling the grunt jobs.”

  “We want all of them,” I said, nodding.

  “Right. So we have to find out when they’re planning a little gathering and then pounce.”

  “Sounds good. Why don’t we bug Levin’s phone? He’s bound to contact his pals or vice versa.”

  “Because it’s illegal, number one. And because whatever we got wouldn’t stand up in court, number two.”

  I thought for a minute. “You’ve tried sitting in a car outside his apartment and then following him around?”

  Bill smiled tolerantly. “I can’t always get a parking spot outside his apartment, but, yes, he’s been under surveillance. So far, I’ve followed him to his power breakfasts, his squash games, his manicures, that sort of thing. Not the stuff arrests are made of.”

  “What about inside his apartment? Have you actually gone in there?”

  “Nancy, I explained that to you. I can’t put a wire in his lampshade or anywhere else in his place. It’s illegal, not to mention a waste of energy.”

  “I’m not talking about putting a wire in his lampshade. I’m talking about snooping around in his apartme
nt. Have you done that?”

  “Of course not. I’m not a cop. I don’t have a search warrant.”

  “Well, I’m Fischer Levin’s teacher and I don’t need a search warrant.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that I make up an excuse for stopping by the Levin place. I’ll say that Fischer forgot to bring his art project home and I’m just dropping it off. I’ll think of something.”

  “And then what? Bob Levin won’t be thrilled to see you. It could be dangerous, Nancy.”

  “Not if I pick a time when he’s not home—like in the late afternoon when he’s still at the office.”

  “Okay. Let’s say you do go there. Levin’s not going to leave incriminating information taped to the refrigerator.”

  “No, but maybe Fischer will show me where he found the pin he gave me for Christmas,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get a look at his father’s ‘buried treasure chest,’ as he calls it. That would give you additional evidence against him, wouldn’t it? If I found more stolen jewelry in the house?”

  “Sure, but after what happened with the brooch, he’s not about to leave any more of it hanging around. My guess is that he’s transferred the gems to a different location by now.”

  “It’s still worth a visit, isn’t it?”

  “You’d go in the afternoon?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And you’d phone the apartment first, to confirm that Levin wasn’t around?”

  “Yup.”

  “And since I’d be waiting in a car down the street, you’d come right out if there were any trouble?”

  “I would. Now, may I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you think you could kiss me?”

  “I think I could, yes.”

  On Monday afternoon, about an hour after school had let out and Fischer had gone home with Olga, I called the Levin household.

  Olga answered the phone. I explained that Fischer had forgotten his Rugrats lunch box and that, since I would be going right by their apartment, I would be glad to drop it off. (I had made sure Fischer had forgotten the lunch box; I had hidden it in Janice’s gym bag.)

  “Thanks,” said Olga. “You leave lunch box with doorman, okay?”

  “Oh. I was hoping I could come up and chat with Fischer for a few minutes,” I said. “I do think it’s important that he sees that I’ve returned the lunch box, that I cared enough to return it.”

  Olga agreed.

  “Although I’d hate to disturb Mr. or Mrs. Levin if they’re at home,” I added.

  “Da parents are not home,” said Olga. “Just Fischer and me, and da cook, da driver, da maid, and da laundry lady.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in a half hour or so.”

  I called Bill to fill him in. We arranged that he would be parked just down the block from the Levins’ during my visit—if he could get a parking space—and that if I didn’t come out of their apartment after twenty minutes, he would come in and get me. I felt a frisson of excitement as I prepared for my first assignment as Bill’s partner in crime—his partner in solving a crime, I mean.

  The Levins lived in a Trump building—Trump Plaza, Trump Tower, one of them. Suffice it to say, the structure was tall and gleaming and didn’t have a sign out front declaring “For those with serious assets only!” but it might as well have.

  Their apartment was on the twenty-seventh floor. It was two apartments, actually. The Levins had bought the unit next door and broken through, and the result was an enormous living space with enough room for family members and staff, not to mention half the population of a tiny country. The other thing I noticed about it was that it was spotless, spectacularly neat, museum-like in its lack of dirt and clutter, as well as white—white walls, white ceilings, white wall-to-wall carpet. Very minimalist or very monotonous, depending on your taste in decorating. Either way, I couldn’t imagine how a young child would feel comfortable in such a sterile environment, but then there was much more going on in that apartment than fastidiousness.

  Fischer bounded to the door in his bare feet after Olga let me in, seeming very happy to see me. I leaned over to give him a hug and handed him his lunch box and asked if I could visit with him for a few minutes. He was delighted, led me down a long hall to his room and showed me his toys and his books and his fish tanks.

  “I know something else you could show me,” I said quickly. Bill had only allotted me twenty minutes to do my thing and get out. I had to hurry.

  “What, Miss Stern?” asked Fischer.

  “Your daddy’s buried treasure chest. I’d love to see where you found my beautiful Christmas pin.”

  Fischer looked confused. “You always tell me I’m lying about the treasure chest. You and Miss Mason put me in Time-out if I say my dad’s a pirate.”

  The kid had a point. “Miss Mason and I may have made a mistake,” I acknowledged. “Grown-ups make mistakes too, honey. Now, do you want to show me this treasure chest before I go?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t. It’s not here anymore. My dad moved it.”

  “Moved it? Where?”

  He shrugged again. “Even my mommy doesn’t know where it is.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  “Nope. She doesn’t know my dad ever had it. Only I know.”

  So Gretchen Levin was in the dark about her husband’s criminal activities. According to Fischer, anyway.

  “How come you’re the one he told?” I asked.

  “‘Cause I’m the one who saw it. Dad said it would be our special secret. But then he moved it. So I can’t show it to you, Miss Stern. I can’t show it to you or my friends.”

  Fischer didn’t have any friends. “That’s okay, honey. Maybe you can help me in another way.”

  “How?”

  I took a deep breath before posing my next question. I didn’t want to get Fischer in trouble with his father, didn’t want to make a bad situation worse, but I had no choice. Bill needed to know when Bob Levin was meeting with his fellow crooks, and I’d pledged to help him find out. Which meant sneaking a look at Levin’s calendar. No, it wasn’t likely that he would write down: “Meeting with other felons regarding jewelry heists.” But I had to start somewhere. “You could show me your dad’s office here in the apartment,” I said. “He must have a room where there’s a desk and chairs and a telephone and maybe some business papers, doesn’t he, Fischer?”

  “Yeah, he has a big office,” Fischer said excitedly, then frowned. “But I’m not allowed in it.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “I could get punished if I go in. No TV for a week.”

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen,” I said, trying not to be discouraged.

  “Why do you want to see my dad’s office, Miss Stern?”

  “Why? Oh.” Think. “Remember I told you about my boyfriend? The man who took me out for dinner on Valentine’s Day?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Well, he has a big office in his apartment too. His birthday is in a few days and I bet he would like a present for his big office but I don’t know what to buy for him. If I went into your dad’s big office, I might get a couple of ideas. Understand?”

  “I guess. But I’m still not allowed in there.”

  “And I appreciate that, Fischer, honey. Rules are rules, just like we have at school. But how about if you tell me where in your apartment your dad’s office is and I go in there by myself?”

  He wasn’t sure about this.

  “It’ll be fine,” I said. “I won’t make a mess, I promise. I’ll be really careful, so no one but you will know I’ve been there. It’ll be our special secret, the same way you and your dad have a special secret about the buried treasure chest.” I hated myself for tricking him, but in the long run I was doing him a favor. Sending his craven father to prison would save the boy’s life, I reasoned.

  “Okay,” said Fischer.

  He told me where the office was. I thanked him and
said he should wait for me in his room, that I’d be right back.

  I hurried down the white-carpeted hall, past the exercise room, past the billiard room, past the media room, until I came to a room with a large leather-top desk and three or four upholstered chairs and gold-framed photographs on the wall of Bob Levin playing polo. This must be the place, I thought, and tiptoed in.

  I went straight for the desk. No calendar. I opened the desk drawers. No calendar. I riffled through a stack of papers. Nothing worth talking about. I gave up on the desk and walked across the room, to a table covered with magazines. I flipped through them and shook my head in bewilderment. I mean, the guy actually kept back issues of Cigar Aficionado! I was about to take a peek inside his credenza when a voice stopped me cold.

  “Fischer!”

  It was a woman’s voice—a shrill, high-pitched woman’s voice that most certainly did not belong to Olga.

  “Fischer! Come here this instant!”

  There it was again. It wasn’t pleased.

  I raced back to Fischer’s room, and as I did I noticed that there were brown footprints all along the white carpet—footprints that were accompanied by an unmistakable rankness.

  “Quick! Mommy’s home!” Fischer whispered when I ducked into his room. “If she finds out you were in my dad’s office, she won’t let you watch TV for a week.”

  “She won’t find out,” I said, patting his head. “Besides, I don’t watch that much TV, so I won’t miss it.”

  “Fischer! I asked you to come!” screeched Gretchen Levin.

  He took off down the hall toward the entrance foyer, toward the voice. I followed him.

  “Fischer! Look what you’ve done!” she said before realizing she had a guest. “Just look!” She was nodding at the brown footprints, her cheeks flushed with fury.

  “I didn’t do anything,” her son protested. “I’m not wearing any shoes. And my feet aren’t as big as those.”

  That’s when Mrs. Levin glanced up at me—and then down at my size 8 feet. Without having to be asked—her withering stare spoke volumes—I checked the bottom of my shoes. Yes, indeed. I was the one responsible for the soiled carpet. It seemed that I had stepped in doggie doo on my trip over to the Levins’ apartment and had tracked the stuff throughout their pristine palace—including Bob Levin’s off-limits office. Some undercover agent.