“Why would he do that?”
“How the hell would I know? Maybe the killer was a professional upholsterer and hated to see the couch ruined. Criminals do strange things, Hubert. They ain’t normal like me and you. Well, me anyway.”
I showed him what I found and what I thought it meant.
“Well, I hope you’re right for both our sakes. And remember, Hubert, I was never here. I’m just glad I didn’t have to identify myself to the doorman. The badge was all it took. But he might remember me if he ever had to, so don’t mess up.”
We left the apartment, and Whit put fresh crime scene tape around the door. Then we walked to the elevator. The door opened before we could push the button, and guess who stepped out?
“Hubie! I knew you lived on this floor. I remember riding up with you the day we first met. What a mess you were.” Then she turned to Whit and said, well you know what she said.
“Of course he knows you Stella. Everyone does. Stella, this is Joseph Inchaustigui.”
“Pleased to meet you, Joseph. Hubert, do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sure, why don’t we all get on the elevator and you and I can get off at four and Joseph can ride on down to the lobby.” Slick how I avoided having the conversation on the eleventh floor, wasn’t it? I guess I could have pretended 1101 was my apartment, but she probably would have noticed the crime scene tape, not to mention that loiding my own door to get inside might have set off a few alarm bells in her head.
45
“Hubert, I don’t think you’ve been completely honest with me.”
“Why do you say that, Stella?”
“Because I asked Rawlings which apartment Hubert lives in and he said he didn’t know any resident named Hubert. He asked me your last name, and of course I couldn’t tell him because you never gave me your last name.”
“You never gave me your last name, either.”
She laughed. She had a very good laugh. “That’s because you already knew my last name, silly. And then, Hubert, I saw you with another woman, and I thought maybe you have a serious relationship with her, and that’s why you were a little hesitant at first the other day when I showed you how to iron.”
That wasn’t the only thing you showed me, I thought to myself. “She’s just a friend,” I said.
“Is that why she was here the other night wearing an evening dress? And you were wearing an ascot, which, by the way, looked really sexy. So I figured the two of you had been to that big party upstairs and then back to your apartment for a nightcap and…and what else, Hubert?”
“Nothing else, Stella. You’re right about the party. She was invited to the party by someone she met over the internet, and she asked me to go along because... well, internet dating, you know?”
“Tacky.”
“That’s what I thought. Anyway, I wish I hadn’t gone because someone was murdered in the building during the party, and the police thought I did it. They even arrested me.”
“I know all about it, Hubie. Everybody in the building is talking about it. That Frederick Blass is not too popular among the residents, always having big loud parties. Some people were saying he invited a murderer to our building, but I told them you didn’t do it.”
“How do you know I didn’t do it?”
“I have inside information, silly,” she said as she slid over closer to me.
“Tell me about Susannah, Hubert.”
“Really, we’re just friends.”
“I’m happy to hear that, because I’ll tell you what I was thinking. I was thinking maybe you left your wife because of Susannah. But it really is the other way around? She left you for a younger man?”
“She did.” Well, what else could I say? This didn’t seem to be the time or place to set the record straight.
She scooted even closer to me on her couch. She smelled faintly of some exotic fruit like persimmon or guava. Or maybe it was passion fruit – that would make sense.
“I’m glad we had this talk, Hubert, because I’m very attracted to you, and I’d hate to think you were leading me along.”
“Oh, I’m definitely not doing that,” I said honestly. I mean, who was leading whom here?
“You know, Hubert, everyone imagines I must have a terrific love life. I know I’m attractive, intelligent, and charming, and of course what I do is considered glamorous by most people, although I can tell you it’s extremely demanding work.”
“I know it is. And the hours are terrible.”
“You do understand, Hubert. I knew you would. And because of the glamour of it all, I get a lot of men coming on to me, but usually they’re not my type. In fact, some of them are weirdos. That’s why I’d never meet men over the internet. I’m sorry to speak ill of your friend Susannah, but I think computer dating is really tacky.”
I muttered something in agreement.
“So I feel lucky, Hubert.” She inched even closer. “I didn’t have to go online to meet you. All I had to do was get on the elevator. Isn’t that lucky, Hubert?”
“It is.”
“Do you feel lucky, too?”
“Sure. I mean—”
Then her hands were all over me and her mouth was all over me, and once again my mind was not up to the task of thinking up a reason to resist, so I didn’t.
46
Susannah put her drink on the table and let her hands drop to her side. “She still doesn’t know your last name?”
“When she said I hadn’t given her my last name, I answered that she hadn’t given me hers either, and she thought that was funny because everyone knows who she is. And then she started talking about herself.”
“Including that she’s ‘attractive, intelligent, and charming’.”
“Right. And then she started talking about how much she was attracted to me and how lucky she was—”
“I know, I know, then you got lucky too. But didn’t you talk afterwards?”
“Umm… well, I fell asleep.”
Susannah laughed. “Well, I guess it’s nice to know you’re a typical male, Hubert.”
“When I woke up, she was gone. She left me a note saying she’d gone to work.”
“Geez. What does that woman do?”
I waved to the dusky Angie and she acknowledged my refill request with a wide smile.
When she delivered it, I tasted it as usual to be sure it was as good as the last one. It was.
“Are you interested in what we found in Gerstner’s apartment, Suze, or are your only interests purely prurient?”
“I have no interest in that woman, Hubert, prurient or otherwise. I just find it amazing that after you spend the night in a parking garage, a gorgeous woman happens to get on the elevator with you, you feed her a ridiculous line about your wife leaving you for a younger man, and the next thing you know she’s giving you nude ironing lessons. Meanwhile, I’m reduced to using online services to meet a man.”
“You did meet a man, Suze, and at least you know what sort of work he does.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“So how’s it progressing?”
“Well, we have our second date tonight. He’s meeting me here.”
I sensed a lack of enthusiasm. “You have some reservations about Freddie?”
“No. Well, maybe.”
“He’s handsome, witty, has a good position at the university. Throws a great party, too.”
She nodded.
“So why the reservations?”
She pushed her glass around the tabletop in small circles. “Maybe he seems too good to be true. Is he really suave or just slick? I don’t know, Hubie. He talks about art and fame and money... Maybe he went on line because he was treasure hunting.”
“Then why select you? Did your message on the dating site say ‘rich girl wants to meet handsome gigolo’?”
“You know what it said. You thought it up.”
Here came that queasy feeling again. “I’m not sure that using my crazy idea was—”
“Forget it. Tell me what you found in Gerstner’s apartment.”
She took the letter I handed her and examined it. “It’s a letter to Gerstner from a former student wanting a recommendation. Is this supposed to be a clue, Hubert?”
“Look at the date on the postmark and the address on the letter.”
“October 25. It’s addressed to Gerstner at the University. So what?”
“He’s got an office there, Suze. Maybe that’s where the pots are.”
“I don’t know, Hubie. Gerstner retired only four or five months ago. He probably still gets lots of mail there.”
“Sure, but the address is Anthropology Hall, Room 204. Mail from people who didn’t know he was retired would be addressed to the chairman’s office on the first floor. I think they gave him an office to use after he retired. They do that sometimes if the retiree is still active in research.”
“Yeah, they did that for Jack Wiezga. He has a studio in the fine arts building.”
“Really? How’s his work.”
“Dated and passé.”
“I thought that’s what you would say.”
“Really? Maybe I heard it somewhere.”
“So why would they give him studio space?” I asked.
She shrugged.
Then another thought crossed my mind. “What do you know about Wiezga?”
“He paints big abstracts using house paint. My studio friends don’t think much of his work, but they say he was good at teaching oil techniques.”
“You know where he’s from?”
“I think he got his degree somewhere in the Midwest. Illinois? Michigan?”
“No, I mean his ethnicity. What sort of name is Wiezga?”
“Somewhere in Eastern Europe. I remember it was a standing joke in the department that the only representational painting he ever did was of a flag after the fall of the Iron Curtain.”
“Why was it a joke?”
“Because the painting is in the departmental gallery, so we had all seen it. It’s called Red, Blue, and Yellow, and it looks nothing like a flag. I guess he’d been doing abstracts too long to make anything look like something.”
“I think I need a map of Eastern Europe.”
“Why this sudden interest in … oh, the Rusyns. You don’t think Wiezga is involved, do you?”
“I don’t know what to think, but maybe there’s a connection between Wiezga, Gerstner, and Glastoc.”
“So what next?”
“Maybe I can learn something by snooping around in Anthropology Hall 204.”
Susannah took a sip of her margarita and smiled at me. “You’re going to burglarize the University again, Hubert? You must still be trying to get even with them for kicking you out.”
I smiled back at her. “I’m just trying to recover stolen property.”
“When the police take back stolen property, Hubie, that’s called recovering it. When you take it back, that’s called stealing it again.”
“A technicality. If the pots are there, I intend to take them.”
“Everyone in the whole building knows who you are. How will you get in?”
“Simple. I’ll go when no one is there.”
“When would… Oh, here’s Frederick now.”
He was standing by Angie, his chin up, his mane brushed casually back, a big smile showing perfect teeth. He wore pleated grey herringbone slacks and a dark blue cashmere sweater. And – can you believe it? – blue suede shoes to match the sweater. I would have looked and felt like a buffoon in that outfit, but on Freddie it actually looked quite natural. He strode over like a male model, gave me a manly handshake, and locked his arm around Susannah.
We chatted for a few minutes – he told me he wanted to see my work, maybe show some of it in his loft – and then they left. I sat back down and ran through my plan and some more salsa and chips.
47
The next morning around eleven, I drove up to the keypad at Rio Grande Lofts.
Except it wasn’t there. The keypad, I mean. Rio Grande Lofts was right where it’s always been. But where the keypad had been there was a slot for inserting a card. I sat there staring at it until a horn sounded behind me. Unfortunately, it was not friendly Wes, the retired cattle buyer. It was a no-nonsense guy in a Lexus who was unsympathetic when I told him I’d lost my card. He did allow me to back out. I drove in to a parking space down the street and sat there thinking.
Then I drove to Duran Central Pharmacy and bought a hamburger with green chile. Yes, you can buy hamburgers with green chile in a pharmacy. Hey, it’s Albuquerque.
I took the hamburger to Tristan’s apartment. There was no yellow Post-It note on the door, so I let myself in and started making coffee and transferring the burger from the Styrofoam to a real plate.
I don’t know whether the brewing coffee or the clinking dishes woke him. He stumbled in to the kitchen and I stuck a hot mug of coffee in his hand. He took a couple of sips then stepped over and lowered the blinds.
“God, it’s bright in here,” he said and then, “Thanks for the burger,” when I sat it in front of him.
He took one bite and said, “Duran Central, right?” He knows food, takes after his uncle.
He demolished the burger, a quart of milk, and a pot of coffee.
“That was delicious, Uncle Hubert. What brings you by other than wanting to make sure I get fed?”
“I need to find out how exit gates in parking garages work.”
He gave me a strange look. “Well, I’m not an expert, but I can give you a summary. First, there are different systems. You have a particular garage in mind?”
“I do.”
“When you approach the exit gate, do you drive over a rubber hose or a metal plate?”
“No, only solid concrete.”
“In that case, the gate is activated by the magnetic field of your car.”
“So the reason it doesn’t open when people approach it on foot is that people aren’t made of metal.”
“Exactly, although I suppose you could trigger it if you had enough metal on you. Or in you. Can you imagine it, Uncle Hubert, having a metal hip or something and walking up to the gate and it swings open.” He laughed at the prospect.
“Could a metal hip actually open it?”
“No, because they’re made from titanium and it’s non-ferrous. And even if the hip was made of iron, it’s probably not big enough.”
“So how much metal would it take?”
“Depends on the system. There are low field and high field detectors.”
“I’m probably going to regret this, but can you explain the difference?”
“Without getting too technical, a high field detector works on the Hall effect, and it takes a pretty good chunk of metal to activate it. A normal car would activate it, no problem. But a bicycle wouldn’t, and with all the molded plastic body parts in cars these days, some compacts might not trigger it. That’s why a low field system is better. It works by sensing a disturbance in the earth’s magnetic field. See, the earth’s magnetic field is pretty weak, about half a gauss, so even a fairly small magnetic field like a bicycle can be detected.”
“And how can you tell which system is present?”
“One glance at the circuitry would tell you. If the resistors are—”
“Tristan!”
“Sorry. You want me to take a look at it?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Before I left, I asked him how he was doing and he said O.K., so I gave him fifty dollars. I was impressed that he was washing the dishes when I left.
48
Susannah frequently has her book bag with her at Dos Hermanas because she leaves from there and goes directly to class. How she can learn art history after a few margaritas is an academic mystery.
That night she was putting the final touches on a paper. The image of the painting she had written about looked like an ancient icon you might find in an orthodox monastery ad
orned with an onion dome.
“You like your course in sacred art?” I asked as I settled in and waved for Angie.
“That was last semester. This semester I’m taking the seminar on the symbolist painters.”
“As opposed to painters who don’t use symbols?”
She cocked her head to one side. “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess ‘symbolist’ wasn’t a good word choice, but I can see how they chose it. They were artists who didn’t like the realism of the 19th Century and how it elevated the mundane and even the gritty. They thought painting should reflect only noble themes – spiritualism, principles, ideals, things like that.”
Since I was planning larceny for the next morning, I felt unworthy to comment on principles and ideals. I just looked at the image of the painting on her cover page. It looked to me like a typical old Russian painting of a saint, a girl or maybe a young boy with his head at an odd angle and surrounded by a gold halo, something that should probably be preserved for historical reasons but you wouldn’t want hanging on your bedroom wall.
The Pot Thief Who Studied Ptolemy (The Pot Thier) Page 18