“What time do you think you’ll be quitting?” Martha said.
“Whenever I get done with the building,” Kling said. “Few more people to see here.”
“Just the fifth floor,” Michelle said. “Peter and Al are only here during the day.”
“Yes, I know that. The photographers, you mean.”
“Yeah, the faggot photographers,” Michelle said. “And there’s only one apartment on the fifth, shouldn’t take you long up there.”
“But there’s another apartment on this floor, isn’t there?” Kling said.
“Yeah, Franny next door in 22,” Martha said.
“She’s never here,” Michelle said. “She’s usually uptown with Zooey.”
“Zooey?”
“Her boyfriend. His name’s Frank Ziegler, we call him Zooey.”
“Is he ever here during the daytime?” Kling asked.
“Zooey? No, he works for an advertising agency someplace on Jefferson.”
“How about Franny?”
“I don’t know what she does,” Martha said. “Michelle thinks she’s a hooker. Oops,” she said, “I keep forgetting you’re a cop.”
“You don’t look like a cop, though,” Michelle said.
“He looks like an actor or something, doesn’t he?” Martha said.
“Yeah,” Michelle said. “Or a ballplayer. A baseball player, you know?”
“An actor, I thought,” Martha said.
“Some kind of athlete,” Michelle said.
Again, the glance passed between the two women. This time, Kling was positively certain about Martha’s small nod.
“Would you like a drink or something?” she asked.
“No, thanks, I’m not allowed to—”
“You said this was your own time.”
“It is, but technically—”
“How about some grass then?” Michelle asked.
“No, no,” Kling said, and smiled.
“Listen,” Martha said, “why don’t you come back down when you’re through?”
Kling looked at her.
“If you’d be interested in a two-on-one, that is,” Michelle said matter-of-factly.
“Thanks,” Kling said, “but—”
“That’s a water bed over there,” Martha said.
“King-size,” Michelle said. “What’s your first name?”
“Jerry,” he said, thinking he was picking the name out of the air until he realized, not a second later, that Jerry Newman was the name of the man who’d been found dead uptown on Friday morning.
“Come back down later, Jerry,” Martha said.
“Well, I’ll see,” Kling said, and began moving toward the door.
“Listen, we mean it, Jerry,” Michelle said.
“Thanks, I’ll see,” Kling said. “And thanks for your—”
“What time do you have to go to work in the morning?” Martha said.
“I’m due in at eight.”
“Nice long night, Jerry,” Michelle said.
“Shouldn’t take you long to do the fifth floor, should it?” Martha said.
“Ten minutes or so, right?” Michelle said.
“Well...” he said, and smiled again, and went to the door and opened it. “Good night,” he said.
“See you later,” Martha said.
“Ten minutes,” Michelle said.
He closed the door behind him. He heard the lock tumblers falling, and then the night chain rattling into place. He put his ear to the door.
“You think he’ll be back?” Martha said.
“Oh, sure,” Michelle said.
Silence.
“That was a bunch of bullshit, wasn’t it?” Martha said. “The runaway bit.”
“Oh, sure,” Michelle said. “He’s lookin’ to get laid.”
He waited. Silence. He kept waiting. Nothing more. He went to the door at the other end of the hall, and knocked on it. Franny’s apartment. That would be Harris, F. in the directory downstairs. Franny who was never home. Franny who was maybe a hooker. He knocked again. Still no answer. He knocked once more, to be certain, and then took the steps up to the third floor. There was only one door on the landing, marked with a white-on-black plastic nameplate: PETER LANG. One of the faggot photographers. He continued on up to the fourth floor. The light was out on the landing there. He picked his way through the dark and up the stairs to the fifth floor.
The man who opened the door to Apartment 51 could have been an idealized mirror-image of Kling himself, slightly taller, six-two or — three, Kling guessed, with a shock of blond hair not unlike his own, brown eyes set in a handsome, rough-hewn face, a nose any male model in New York would have pillaged and killed for, a cleft chin, and a petulant mouth. He was wearing designer jeans and nothing else. He’d lifted weights when he was younger, Kling was certain of that. His shoulders were enormous, his chest and his arms were bulging with muscle.
“Detective Atchison,” Kling said, “Isola Police.”
“Let me see that again,” the man said.
Kling held the shield up again.
“What precinct is that?” he asked.
“The Three-Two,” Kling lied.
“Where’s your I.D. card?”
“We’re getting new ones issued,” Kling said.
“So where’s your old one?”
“Had to turn it in so I could get the new one,” Kling said. “Why? What’s the problem? Would you like to call my lieutenant to verify I’m a bona fide cop?”
“You’re supposed to have an I.D. card,” the man said.
“You can’t buy this shield in the five-and-ten,” Kling said. “Forget it, I’ll come back next week, when I get the new card. Thanks for your cooperation, mister. There’s nothing a man likes better on a night like this than to climb up all these stairs—”
“Come in, calm down,” the man said. “What is it you want?”
“I’m looking for a runaway,” Kling said.
“There’re lots of burglaries in this neighborhood,” the man said, closing and locking the door behind them. “You learn to be careful.”
“I can understand that. I’m sorry about the I.D., it’s just one of those stupid departmental—”
“Don’t sweat it,” the man said.
“Ever see this girl anywhere in the building?” Kling asked, and showed him the picture. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Bradford Douglas,” he said, taking the picture.
Bradford Douglas. Douglas, B. in the directory downstairs, Apartment 51.
“Recognize her?” Kling said.
“No, I don’t know her,” Douglas said, and handed back the picture.
“Do you live here, or work here, or what?” Kling asked.
“I live here.”
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Douglas?”
“What’s that question got to do with your runaway?”
“I’m trying to find out whether you were here in the building yesterday between—”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Because the girl was seen here sometime between twelve-thirty and one-forty-five yesterday...”
“I was only here till noon.”
“You left at noon?”
“Yes. I was waiting for a friend of mine...”
“What time did your friend get here?”
“At a little past twelve. What the hell can that have to do...?”
“A visitor might’ve seen her,” Kling said. “If somebody came to visit, he... or she... might’ve seen the girl.” He hesitated. “Who was here, can you tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Let’s say it would be indiscreet of me, okay?”
“In what way?”
“Let’s say marriage is a delicate arrangement, okay?”
“Oh, are you married, Mr. Douglas?”
“No.”
“Then your visitor—”
“End of conversation,” Douglas said.
“I wish you’d help me, Mr. Douglas. Because, you see, this girl’s been missing for two years now, and if there’s anyone who might’ve seen her—”