“He what?”
“I think we need to make sure that once the department issues an alert for him-if Scully thinks that’s necessary-there’s a bodyguard at the Dalton apartment, for his mother’s sake.”
“We’re fresh running out of bodyguards,” Mercer said.
“So I have this idea,” I said. “If it’s okay with Vickee, why don’t I spend the weekend at your house?”
Mike threw his head back and started talking. “Nightmare on Elm Street. There they were, planning a nice romantic weekend together, and you throw yourself into the mix.”
“Don’t choke on the dog,” I said to Mike. “They’ve got a toddler. No such thing as a romantic weekend.”
“We’ll be fine with that,” Mercer said.
“Frees up the two rookies who were sitting on me to hold Bernice Wicks’s hand if we flush Eddie out of hiding. Meanwhile, I’m safe and sound with you two.”
“How can you just invite yourself to their home?” Mike asked.
“Because the department thinks I have to be protected against Raymond Tanner, and because I have no plans for the weekend, Mr. Chapman,” I said, covering the phone with my hand. “Care to change that?”
“Not in the stars right now, Coop,” Mike said, chewing on the hot dog. “I’m a eunuch for as long as Manny Chirico wants me to be. Ask Mercer if Crime Scene got anything out of the room.”
Mercer heard Mike ask me the question and responded. “The coffee cups are going to the lab for possible DNA in the saliva. They’ve done imaging of the footprints, which appear to be an adult male-not a sneaker but some kind of rubber-soled shoe. Size twelve. Newspaper fragments from late May, early June. Snack food wrappers.”
“Generic debris,” I said.
“Except for one little slip of paper,” Mercer said.
“Oh?”
“Stuck in the fold of one of the newspapers was a ticket-like a large manila tag you’d use to label something-from a storage warehouse on Second Avenue: Day & Meyer, Murray & Young,” Mercer said. “Ever hear of it?”
“Of course. It’s on 61st Street, just north of the Queensboro Bridge.” My friend Joan Stafford’s grandmother, one of the wealthiest heiresses in the city, used to roll up her most valuable Oriental carpets and take down her collection of Old Masters every summer, before moving up to Newport, to be stored at Day & Meyer. The carpets were shelved in cedar to repel moths, and the paintings kept in climate-controlled vaults. “It’s where the richest New Yorkers have stored their most precious possessions for a hundred years.”
“Would you guess Lavinia Dalton?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“The tag has no name, but it does have a number. Surely they can track that.”
“Have you asked Jillian Sorenson about it?” I said.
“No need to tip my hand to her,” Mercer said. “I just don’t trust her. But I’m going to take a run over to the storage place myself.”
“We’re a straight shot up First Avenue. Meet you there in ten minutes.”
“Meeting where?” Mike asked when I clicked off the call.
“61st and Second. That monolith of a building that straddles the block on the east side of the street.”
Millions of New Yorkers passed the Day & Meyer neo-Gothic tower every day, most never knowing the treasures that were housed behind its mostly windowless façade were as valuable as the contents of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Have you been there?”
“Never inside. But they used to pick up all of Joannie’s grandmother’s most precious belongings and-”
“Pick them up? What do you mean?”
“I remember being at Grandma Stafford’s home-that incredible duplex on the river-when the men from Day & Meyer came to collect her living room one time.”
Mike pulled out into the uptown flow of traffic. “What in her living room?”
“I told you. The living room. Every piece of furniture she’d bought in Europe’s finest antique markets over the years, the baby grand piano, the rug all those things were sitting on, the Delft porcelain that lined the walls, the family portraits as well as the Mary Cassatt and the minor Van Gogh. And on and on. When the men were done, the room was absolutely bare.”
“And they moved that stuff how?”
“Ah! What they’re famous for at Day & Meyer is the Portovault system.”
“Panoscan I know. What’s a Portovault?”
“Think of each Portovault unit as a steel safe-about eleven feet long and as tall as the ceilings at the Dakota, and weighing about a ton.”
“Like a shipping container?”
“Pretty much. Except that these are on wheels, and they’re impenetrable. They’re loaded onto an armored truck-armored, okay?-and taken to the client’s home, where the men pack them up, lock them-so that the owner can watch-and return them to the building on 61st Street.”
“Where they’re unloaded again?”
“Or not,” I said. “The building has an interior rail system-that’s why the units are on wheels-so each one goes from the loading dock to a freight elevator and right into an assigned space, like the most gigantic safe imaginable.”
“Locked and loaded. And then the whole room just sits as it is, waiting for its owner to send for it someday.”
“When the season at Newport ended, Granny Stafford used to call for her vault, and everything was dusted off and put back into place.”
We reached 61st Street before Mercer did. My cell mailbox was full, and I was happy to ignore everything incoming, most of which had to be from an angry Battaglia. I dialed Nan Toth’s office number and was pleased that she was at her desk and picked up.
“Glad you’re still there,” I said. It was almost four in the afternoon.
“Yeah, but where are you?”
“Field trip. Don’t ask.”
“I am asking. Laura’s tearing her hair out with worry.”
“I’ll explain everything later. Will you be there a while?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I have a witness on my d.v. case who can’t come in until after work at five.”
“Great. Can you hammer out some creative subpoenas for me while you wait?”
“How creative?”
“I’m meeting Mercer in a few minutes,” I said, leaving Mike out of the mix in the event Battaglia or McKinney pressured my good friend Nan on my whereabouts.
“A break in the case?”
“To be honest with you, I don’t know what it is. We may be chasing rainbows-or shadowy figures in windows and shoe prints in dusty rooms-but that’s all we’ve got to do at this point.”
“Okay. What do you need?”
“Mercer’s got a receipt for something that’s in storage. You know Day & Meyer?”
“The Fort Knox of storage facilities. I’ve heard of it.”
“We’re about to go in to try to access a particular container.”
“Because?”
“Some guy who had the receipt may have been watching the police remove the dead girl’s body from the Lake in the Park. We have a picture of him checking out the crime scene at seven A.M. last Friday morning, the time the body was bagged and the guys were scouring for clues.”
“Go on.”
“And there were several items of value-stolen items which are part of a larger collection-that may be connected to the girl’s death. We’re betting this storage container holds the key to connecting the dots to the killer.”
“So you want me to draft a search warrant for the container?” Nan asked.
“That will take way too long.”
“And no judge in his right mind would sign it.”
“That, too,” I said. “All I’m asking you for is a grand jury subpoena. No judge’s signature required. There’s an open investigation. It’s all legal.”
“And that subpoena would be-?”
“A ‘must appear’-to the manager of Day & Meyer, to show up on Monday, before the grand jury, with the contents of the container. As soon as Mercer gets here, I’ll give you the number on his receipt.”