I snorted. “Like who?”
Paul rattled off the names of some local politicians as I folded up the bills and put them in my pocket.
“That’s supposed to impress me?”
“No. But it’s good for business.” Paul reached into his bottom desk drawer and brought out a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Scotch. “A gift from a grateful client of mine.” He grinned. “Let’s drink to success. We can both use it.”
I certainly could. I looked at the bottle. It was warm in here. The radiator was making a comforting hissing noise. I could taste the peaty aftertaste of the Scotch. I could feel the warmth in my mouth and throat. So I said, sure. Why not? It had been a crappy week.
I took off my parka and threw it on the sofa. Paul pulled two glasses out of another drawer. They were smudged. I decided I didn’t care. The alcohol would kill whatever pathogens were on them.
“Straight?” he asked.
“Is there another way?”
“Not for me.” He poured two fingers into my glass and handed it to me. “How’s old Georgie doing?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him lately. Why are you asking?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Oh.” I wondered if Paul knew about Natalie. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he did. Paul knew everything. I don’t know how he did, but he did. He was like Manuel that way.
Paul raised his glass and I raised mine.
“To truth,” he said.
“I like success better.”
“To success then.”
We drank. Paul refilled our glasses. We lifted them again.
“To finding Janet Wilcox,” I proposed.
“To big fees,” Paul said.
We drank to that.
“Do you ever worry that you’re drinking too much?” Paul asked.
“Sometimes. You?”
“Sometimes.”
I raised my glass and he poured me another shot, then did the same for himself.
Half an hour later I was stepping out of the elevator of the State Tower Building with my bonus, plus fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of expense money, and the information I needed about the man Janet Wilcox was allegedly staying with in my backpack.
I went home, walked Zsa Zsa, had another couple of nightcaps, and fell asleep on the sofa watching television.
Chapter Thirteen
That night I dreamt about Murphy. I was sitting in the middle of an island so small that there was only room for me. Murphy was standing over me telling me something about a wall and the color purple and that I shouldn’t worry about the thing underneath when Zsa Zsa woke me up barking at a snowplow going down the street. My heart was still racing as I looked outside. The sky was white; the air was filled with flakes.
It looked beautiful and would drive lousy. I reached over and clicked to the Weather Channel. The announcer was predicting possible blizzard-like conditions as far down as the metropolitan area. Read New York City. Better and better. Especially since two inches of snow tended to paralyze the City.
I got on my boots, put on my parka, and walked outside with Zsa Zsa. She jumped in and out of the drifts. Little clumps of snow clung to her ears and nose.
“What do you think?” I asked her. “Should I go or stay?”
She woofed.
“Go. I agree. Nothing like a change of scenery to change your viewpoint.”
And I motioned for her to come back in. I dried her off with a big towel and went into the kitchen. I was just about to make myself some coffee, then go upstairs and tell Manuel what I was going to do, when Bethany waltzed into the kitchen.
“You were asleep when I came in,” she explained.
I stopped grinding the beans. “What are you doing here?”
“We have a snow day. It was on the television last night.”
“That’s not the issue. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Manuel’s mom said it was okay.”
“Did she?”
I didn’t think it was, but I bit my tongue. It was too early in the morning to talk about this.
“You think I’m lying?” Bethany demanded, putting her hands on her hips.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sorry.”
“I like your hair.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
One thing was for sure. She looked better now than she had when her parents had hired me to find her last year when she’d run away. She’d lost weight since then as well as the platinum hair, the big gold earrings and chains, and the baggy clothes she’d been sporting. Despite what her father said, maybe she and Manuel were good for each other.
Of course, Manuel wasn’t why she’d gotten booted out of her nice, middle-class Cazenovia household. That had to do with her generally lousy attitude. And it was pretty bad. But I don’t know. If I had a kid, I don’t think I’d give up on her so easily.
Bethany ran her finger down the handle of one of the mugs out on the counter. “I’m sixteen.”
“I know how old you are.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“In the eyes of the law you are. And what is this stuff Manuel was telling me about you divorcing your parents?”
Bethany slouched against the counter. “I can go to court and have myself declared an emancipated minor. My father told me he doesn’t care. And my mother always follows everything he says.”
“Are you going to?”
“Maybe.”
“And who’s going to support you?”
“Me. I’ll get a job at the mall.”
“What about school?”
“I’ll finish up at OCC.” Bethany studied her nails. “Manuel’s mom says I can stay with her a little bit longer.”
“And then?”
“I’ll figure something out.” Bethany reached over and took my hand. “Manuel said he’s going to get me a golden retriever puppy.” She beamed. “I’ve always wanted one, but my father would never have one in the house. Too much hair.”
“Bethany, having a puppy is like having a baby.”
“I know.” Her smile got wider.
I didn’t know what else to say. She reminded me of myself at that age, and it was too painful to watch.
She leaned against the kitchen counter. “So what are you up to?”
“I’m getting ready to go down to the City.”
“On a case?”
I nodded.
Her eyes widened. “Cool. I’ll make your coffee for you and bring it up to you.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I turned to go upstairs and pack.
“And don’t worry,” Bethany called after me. “I’ll take good care of Zsa Zsa. And I’ll make sure Manuel does the dishes and shovels the sidewalk.”
It was too bad she couldn’t be like this with her own parents, I thought as I got a suitcase out of my closet, but I guess that wasn’t going to happen. At least not any time soon. Zsa Zsa jumped on the bed and whined while I threw clothes into the suitcase. She knew I was going. By the time I got back down, Manuel was in the kitchen eating cereal.
“Maybe you should wait for the weather to clear,” he said.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call you when I get into the City.”
Bethany came over and gave me a hug. “You be careful.”
“I will.” I hugged her back and knelt on the kitchen floor and hugged Zsa Zsa. She smelled like popcorn. “You be a good girl and take care of the house,” I crooned in her ear. She licked my chin. “Mommy will be back soon.”
She walked me to the door. When I pulled out of the driveway, she was on the chair looking out the window. Even though she was in good hands, I felt bad about leaving her.
Usually to get to New York City from Syracuse takes anywhere from four and a half to five and a half hours depending on the route you take, the time of day, and the weather. This time it took me seven. I probably should have taken the New York State Thruway. The State does a good job of keeping it clear in bad weather. Instead I
went down through the Catskills on Route 17. In the spring, summer, and fall, it’s a beautiful ride—a winding mountain road that goes through what is, for my money, some of the best scenery in New York State.
But not today. Today the road was littered with cars that had slid off into ditches. Given them and the periodic whiteouts, I drove at a prudent forty-five miles an hour. But by the time I reached the town of Liberty, New York, the snow had turned to flurries. The flurries, in turn, changed to a hard rain that thrummed on the hood of my car as I hit the Palisades Parkway.
My car headlights reflected off the wet asphalt. I had to hunch forward to see. When I reached the top level of the George Washington Bridge, my eyes were aching from the effort of focusing. The river was shrouded in fog, the Manhattan skyline hidden in the gray mists. Traffic moved slowly on the Henry Hudson Parkway—at least that hadn’t changed—and I watched the lights from the apartments on the Palisades wink on and off as if they were sending Morse code.
I got off at the 96th Street entrance and went across town. Even though this side of the City had become fashionable, it still looked bleak in the rain, a picture of gray on gray, with people scurrying to where they had to go. I was glad I was in my car instead of out walking.
The apartment Janet Wilcox was supposedly camping out in belonged to a man named Salvatore Quintillo. According to Janet’s hairdresser, Quintillo was a friend of Janet’s from college. According to Paul, Quintillo was a one-time painter who now sold decorator art to doctors and dentists. He worked out of his apartment on 81st Street between Third Avenue and Lexington, as well as renting office space in the back of a small gallery on 95th Street.
I’d had an apartment three blocks away from Quintillo’s before I moved upstate. I had good times there. Sad ones. Painful ones. Ones I had no desire to revisit.
But there were also the calls from the credit card companies, not to mention the sales tax I owed New York State and the five hundred dollars I owed the power company. So here I was. Back in my old neighborhood. The Upper East Side.
I’d read somewhere that this ZIP Code had the largest concentration of rich people in America. I believed it. When I was growing up, it hadn’t been like that. It had been middle-middle class, with lots of mom-and-pop stores and restaurants—mostly Hungarian—where you could get an entire meal for eight dollars. Now there were food boutiques that displayed apples as if they were precious jewels and neighborhood restaurants that charged $10.50 for a BLT.
My mother was one of those rich people. She lived on Park Avenue. Eight blocks away from Quintillo’s. A five-minute drive. A seven-minute walk. She lived in a white-glove building. Doorman. Elevator man. The whole schmeer. You walked into the lobby and you felt as if you should be talking in whispers. My mother’s living room was as big as my dining room and living room combined. That place held a lot of memories for me. Most of them bad. That was one of the reasons I’d come to Syracuse. To put as much distance between her and me as possible.
I took a deep breath and turned my mind to what Paul had told me. From what he’d been able to ascertain, Quintillo did a good business helping Park Avenue docs maintain the upscale tone to their offices that enabled them to charge as much as they did. My question, given what I’d heard about Janet, was why were those two friends? What bound them together? According to everyone I’d talked to, Janet Wilcox had no friends. None at all. From everything I’d been told about her, I would have expected her to be staying in a hotel.
Too bad she wasn’t. Then I could have sat in the lobby, read a book, and waited for her to come down.
Chapter Fourteen
Before cell phones, running a stakeout by yourself was difficult, not to mention terminally boring. All that sitting with no one to talk to. No one to trade jokes with. That’s not true anymore. You can talk to your heart’s content. As long as you have the money to pay the bill.
But you still can’t read. At least nothing you have to concentrate on. Crossword puzzles are okay. But there are only so many of those you can do. I suppose I could always whittle. Or knit. I can see it now. Sam Spade’s book of knitting patterns for revolvers and other assorted weapons. They have tea cozies. Why not gun cozies?
Actually, I used to knit. For a brief period when I was trying to be domestic. I even knit a sweater for Murphy. It ended up with very long sleeves and a short body. It would have fit a gorilla perfectly. I gave it up after that—the knitting, that is. If I’d been smart, I would have worked on the knitting and given up Murphy instead.
Another bad thing about being alone on a stakeout is there’s no one to run out and get food. You have to stock up beforehand. Although these days, with a cell phone, you can probably get a delivery to your car, though that’s not a good way to remain inconspicuous.
And then there’s the pee factor. That’s huge. If you’re a guy you can pee into a Coke bottle. I’ve heard some women do that too. Not me. I’m not that hardcore. I figure, screw it. You gotta go, find a restaurant, buy a coffee and a Danish, and use the rest room.
The block Janet Wilcox’s building was on was strictly residential. Which meant there were no coffee shops or restaurants I could sit in, no stores to linger in. I’d either have to stand outside—which I wasn’t inclined to do because I’d be fairly obvious and because it was still pouring and I didn’t fancy getting pneumonia—or find a place to park the car, not an easy thing in a place where legal spots are a rare commodity.
On the good side, 201 East 81st Street was a five-story brownstone instead of one of those large, fancy-schmancy apartment buildings with both a main and a service entrance. On the bad side, it looked exactly like the one I’d lived in. More memories. But the good side of that was that I was familiar with the layout.
There were usually three or four apartments to a floor, with the superintendent living in the basement apartment. Number 201 seemed to be following the same pattern—a fact attested to by the garbage cans lined up along the iron railing that cut off access to the outside, downstairs steps.
Which meant there was only one way to get in and out of 201. I decided to make sure. I double-parked my car in front of the building and ran up the steps. The door, wood and glass, stuck when I pushed it open. I brushed the raindrops off my jacket, stepped inside, and got a serious case of déjà vu.
The entrance hall was the exact duplicate of the place I’d lived in all those years ago. It had the same nondescript green textured paper on the walls. I remember hearing a decorator friend of mine call it Urban Blight The wallpaper books called it Wheat Grass. Takeout menus were stacked on the radiator, just the way they are in everyone else’s building. The place had the same mailboxes with the illegible names written in the little white spaces, the same intercom system. The intercom system was there to give the residents a feeling of security. But like most feelings of security it was false because people were always forgetting their keys and buzzing to be let in. Like I was going to do now.
I ran my finger down the names. There were eighteen. Quintillo’s was listed as 3B. I pressed the buzzer and waited. No one answered. I chose another button at random.
“Yes,” a voice came back a few seconds later.
“This is the sister of . . .” I consulted the intercom. “Tom Bernstein in 5B. I forgot my key. Can you let me in?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. . .”
“I’m sorry,” I said in the most contrite voice I could muster up.
I heard some grumbling and the door buzzed open. I went inside. Four bikes and a stroller were stored by the steps. The walls of the inner hallway were painted ballpark-mustard yellow, a slightly darker, but no less ugly shade of yellow than the walls in my place had been. I peeked behind the stairs. No entrance. No steps leading down to the basement. The people living here had to take their wash to a laundromat. What a pain that had been.
I decided it would be prudent to go upstairs and scope out the locale of Quintillo’s apartment. I had a pretty good idea where 3B most likely was, but I wa
nted to make sure. Sometimes landlords cut up these apartments in funny ways so that they can get even more money.
It turned out I could have saved myself the climb. I’d been right. Quintillo had the middle apartment. Its windows faced toward the back instead of toward the street, just as mine had done. The six months I’d been out of a job, I’d spent hours every day watching five stray, mangy-looking cats tearing at the garbage bags people threw out the window, stalking rats almost as large as they were, and snoozing under the shade of a couple of spindly sumac trees that had erupted out of the asphalt.
Ergo: I couldn’t see Janet Wilcox from the street and she couldn’t see me. I stood in the hallway listening to the indistinct sounds of the radio drifting under the door of Quintillo’s apartment. The radio didn’t mean anyone was in. Lots of people keep their radios on when they aren’t home. Or they used to. I imagine they still do.
Some do it so their pets will have company; other people do it to convince burglars that someone is home. The ones that had ransacked my apartment hadn’t been fooled. I was thinking I should have tried the TV when I heard steps coming down the stairs and left. Better, I reasoned, not to have to explain what I was doing there.
On the way out, I passed a man coming in. He was dressed in a gray overcoat and had one of those men’s hats with ear flaps on his head.
“Nasty weather,” he said, smiling at me and revealing a mouth filled with too many teeth.
I nodded noncommittally.
“Just moved in? I don’t remember seeing you before.”
“Visiting.”
But when I turned again, the smile was gone and he was appraising me as he fumbled with his keys. Or maybe I’d just imagined it in the dim light. When he saw me watching him, he gave a curt little nod and swiveled around so his back was toward me. I decided I was becoming paranoid in my old age as I hurried down the steps and into my car, investing more in a simple transaction than I should.
I called Wilcox from my cell to tell him I’d arrived. “Remember,” he said. “Phone me when you see Janet. Don’t do anything else.”
“I remember.”
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