“You know, this... uh... nonrepresentational, do you call it?”
“I call it abstract expressionism,” Lucas said. “We all call it abstract expressionism.”
“Are you familiar with the work of Lawrence Newman?” Kling asked.
Lucas looked surprised. “Yes,” he said. “How come you know Newman’s work?”
“Well, you know,” Kling said, and smiled. “I drop into the Kern Gallery every now and then.”
“Uh-huh,” Lucas said, and was silent for a moment. “What’s this really about?” he asked suddenly. “Larry’s son killing himself?”
“What?” Kling said.
“His son committed suicide last week, it was in all the papers. Is that why you’re here?”
“I don’t know about that case,” Kling said.
“It was in all the papers.”
“Well, I’m looking for a runaway,” Kling said, and smiled. “You haven’t seen her, huh?”
“No,” Lucas said.
“Are you here all day long?” Kling asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because if she really is living in the building...”
“I’m here all day, this is where I work,” Lucas said.
“She was seen here yesterday, that’s what our informant told us. Were you here yesterday?”
“I was here yesterday.”
Kling made a show of consulting his notebook. “Between the hours of twelve-thirty and one-forty-five?”
“I didn’t see her.”
“Maybe your model...”
“I don’t use a model.”
“Did you have any visitors at all between those hours?”
“What’s that to you?”
“I’m trying to locate a girl who’s been missing from her home in Kansas for almost two years, Mr. Lucas. This is the first fresh lead we’ve had. I’m trying to find out if somebody, for Christ’s sake, might have seen her. I know this is a little late to be making the rounds this way, but I’d appreciate your help, sir, I really would. Her parents—”
“I was alone during that time,” Lucas said.
“No visitors?”
“None.”
“And you haven’t seen her?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lucas. I’d appreciate it if you took another look at the photo, and if you do happen to see her—” He cut himself short just in time. He’d been about to follow normal procedure, give the man his card, ask him to call him at the Eight-Seven if anything came up.
“Yeah, what?” Lucas said.
“I’ll be back in a few days, you can let me know then.”
“I thought this was urgent,” Lucas said. “If it’s so fuckin’ urgent—”
“I’ll give you my card,” Kling said, “with a number where I can be reached.” Again, he made a show of looking through his notebook, even though he kept his cards in the slipcase of the leather folder containing his shield and his Lucite-enclosed identification card. “I’m all out,” he said. “If you’ve got a piece of paper, I’ll jot it down for you.”
“Just give it to me,” Lucas said, “I’ll remember it.”
Kling knew he had no intention of remembering it. He reeled off the number for the Headquarters building on High Street, thanked Lucas for his time, and then went out into the hall again. He should not have brought up Lawrence Newman’s name. He had done so only to crack Lucas’s hostile facade, show him he was familiar with the world of abstract expressionism, but he’d only succeeded instead in arousing suspicion about his cover story. He would not make that mistake again. He climbed the dimly lighted stairway to the second floor of the building. Two doors here, one at either end of the hallway. He pressed the bell button outside the door to the right of the stairwell. Apartment 21. Healy, M., and Rosen, M. A buzzer sounded inside.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called.
“Police,” he said.
“Police?” The voice sounded totally astonished. He waited until she opened the door for him, and then he went through the routine of identifying himself as Detective Atchison, and giving her a brief glimpse of his shield and then asking her if he might come in and show her a picture of the runaway he was looking for.
The woman’s name was Martha Healy.
She was tall and angularly built, wearing black tights and a yellow halter top that matched the color of the hair massed and pinned on top of her head. Her eyes were green — like Augusta’s. She had wiry legs and arms, and he suspected she was a dancer even before she told him she was. There was another woman in the apartment, a small, dark-eyed brunette in her twenties, wearing only panties and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was lettered with the words SQUEEZE ME. She was lying on a sofa against one of the walls, leafing through a magazine and smoking. She looked up when Kling came in, and then went back to the magazine.
The apartment had obviously been one section of a loft, now divided to form the two living units on this floor of the building. Mirrors lined one entire wall of the room, from floor to ceiling. “For when I practice,” Martha explained. There were no proper walls dividing the living spaces; many of these converted lofts tried to maintain the feeling of openness that had been there originally. Living room melted into bedroom and kitchen and then a small area lined with bookshelves. Kling smelled marijuana on the air, and realized that what the girl on the sofa was smoking was pot. Nobody bothered flushing a joint when the Law arrived these days; he had been in movie theaters where the cloud of marijuana smoke was enough to produce a high if you just inhaled deeply. Augusta smoked marijuana. So did Kling himself, on occasion.
“Have you seen her around?” he asked, and handed Martha the photograph.
“No,” Martha said. “How about you, Michelle?”
“What?” the brunette said.
“You see this kid around anyplace?” she asked, and moved to the couch, a dancer’s walk, somewhat stiff-legged and duck-footed. She handed the photograph to Michelle, who studied it through a marijuana haze.
“No,” Michelle said. “Don’t know her.”
“Are you both here most of the time?” Kling asked.
“In and out,” Martha said.
“How about yesterday, between twelve-thirty and one-forty-five?”
“I was in class. Michelle?”
“I was here.”
“Alone?” Kling asked.
“Alone,” she said, and looked at him, and smiled suddenly and radiantly. She had Bugs Bunny teeth.
“Because if you had any visitors, one of them might’ve seen—”
“We save our visitors for the nighttime,” Martha said. She looked at Michelle, who was still smiling. The women exchanged a glance. Kling thought he saw Martha nod, almost imperceptibly.
“No one here then, huh?” he said. “Between twelve-thirty and one-forty-five?”
“Just little old me,” Michelle said, still grinning like Bugs Bunny.
“So they send you out on this kind of thing at night, huh?” Martha said, and sat Indian-fashion on one of the throw pillows scattered on the floor.
“Well, whenever we get something that looks like real meat, we usually—”
“Real meat, huh?” Martha said.
“Yes, that’s what we—”
“Real meat, Michelle,” Martha said.
“So how late do they keep you working?” Michelle asked. She had put down the magazine, and was sitting up cross-legged on the couch now, the same way Martha was sitting on the throw pillow. Her panties were blue.
“Well, this is on my own time, actually,” Kling said.
“They make you work on your own time, too, huh?” Martha said.
“Yes. Sometimes.”