"But you didn't."
"No. I met a sweet talker who turned me out."
"Joseph Seward?"
"No, Joe was later."
"How long were you in Houston?"
"I told you. A year. Are you adding all this up? Then to Mexico for about six months, then to Buenos Aires for five years, and I've been here for fifteen months. What do you get?"
"Sixteen when you left home…"
"Almost."
"I get twenty-four."
"I'll be twenty-five in August."
"You've led a busy life," he said.
"Busier than you know," she said.
"You told us your father had set you up here…"
"No, that was a lie. I'm sure you know that. Don't test me, Mr. Carella, I hate dishonest people."
"How did you come by this place?"
"Didn't Hal tell you? I came here with close to two million dollars. The place cost me seven-five. I invested the rest. That's why I needed an accountant."
"Marc Aronstein."
"Yes. Of Harvey Roth, Incorporated."
"Here in the city?"
"Yes. On Battery Street. Near the Old Seawall."
"Ever discuss financial matters with Mr. Hollander?"
"Never."
"Ever been audited by the IRS?"
"Once."
"Any problems?"
"Only the usual."
"Like what?"
"T&E deductions."
"What's that?"
"Travel and Entertainment."
"Oh," he said. In his line of work, you didn't take deductions for travel and entertainment. "Ever discuss that audit with Mr. Hollander?"
"I told you I never discussed financial matters with him."
"Even though you knew he was an accountant?"
"We had other things to discuss."
"Did he know you'd been a hooker?"
"No."
"Did any of your other friends?"
"No."
"McKennon?"
"No."
"Riley? Endicott?"
"None of them."
"The night McKennon was killed…"
"I was away skiing at Snowflake."
"With Nelson Riley."
"Yes."
"And the night Hollander was killed…"
"I was with Chip Endicott."
"Both good friends of yours."
"Past tense," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Hal wants me to stop seeing them."
That serious, he thought.
"And will you?"
"I will." She paused, and then said, "I love him, you see."
CHAPTER 11
A police car was angled into the curb in front of Nelson Riley's building when Marilyn got there at ten o'clock on Saturday morning. She thought Uh-oh, and then hesitated a moment on the sidewalk outside, and then took a deep breath and went into the building.
During the week, a black man ran the elevator for the hat factory that still occupied the sixth floor of the building. The owners of the factory were not pleased that Riley had painted a huge bloated nude on the fourth-floor elevator doors, a lady who got divided in half—smack between the breasts and down through the belly button and crotch—whenever the doors were open. The hat factory was closed on Saturdays and Sundays, and the elevator was self-service on those days. This meant that you had to operate all by yourself the ancient lever-type, drum-contained mechanism that ran the elevator.
Marilyn had always had difficulty with it; she never seemed able to stop the elevator exactly on the mark identifying the fourth floor. She yanked the lever back and forth now, and finally maneuvered the floor of the car level with the fourth-floor corridor. She opened the inside gate, struggled the heavy nude-painted doors open, closed the gate and the doors behind her because that was what you had to do when the elevator was on self-service, and then walked down the corridor to Riley's loft.
The door to the loft was open.
Inside, she could see two uniformed policemen, one of them writing on a pad, the other one standing with his hands on his hips, listening. Riley was telling them he was certain someone had broken into the loft the night before.
"The minute they yank police protection, somebody breaks in," he said.
"What do you mean, police protection?" the cop with the pad asked.
"I've had a cop here with me twenty-four hours a day," Riley said.
"What for?"
"They felt I needed protection."
"Who felt?"
"The detectives investigating a case uptown."
"Where uptown?"
"The Eighty-seventh Precinct."
The cop with his hands on his hips said, "What kind of case?"
"A murder case," Riley said. "Hi, Marilyn, come on in."
"You hear this, Frank?" the cop with the pad said.
"I hear it, Charlie," the other cop said.
"Who's this?" Frank said, as Marilyn walked to where they were standing in the loft's work area.
"Friend of mine," Riley said, and kissed her on the cheek.
"What makes you think somebody broke in here?" Charlie asked.
"The window there in the living area was forced open," Riley said. "Something, huh?" he said to Marilyn.
The cops moved into the living area. Riley and Marilyn followed them.
"You live here, that it?" Frank asked.
"I live here and I work here," Riley said.
"What kind of work you do?" Charlie asked.
"I'm a painter."
"You are?" Frank said. "Let me have your card, okay? My brother-in-law needs his house painted."
"I paint pictures," Riley said. "The ones out there." He indicated with a gesture of his head the paintings lining the walls of the loft.
"You done those, huh?" Frank said.
"Yes."
Frank looked past him and then nodded non-commitally.
"So this is where you sleep, huh?" Charlie said. "This waterbed here?"
"Yes."
"How are they, these waterbeds?"
"Fine," Riley said. "Take a look at the window, you can see where it was forced."
Charlie moved to the window near the foot of the bed. He studied it carefully. Frank peered over his shoulder. Behind their backs, Marilyn rolled her eyes.
"These marks here, you mean?" Charlie said.
"Yes."
"They weren't here before?"
"No."
"They're new, huh?"
"Yes."
"What do you think, Frank?"
"Coulda been jimmied," Frank said, and shrugged.
"Anything missing?" Charlie said.
"No, I don't think so."
"So why'd you call us?" Frank said.
"If somebody broke in here, that's a reason to call the police, isn't it?"
"Why would somebody break in here and not take anything?" Charlie said.
"I don't see nothing worth taking," Frank said, looking around the living area.
"Mr. Riley gets upward of five thousand dollars a canvas," Marilyn said, bristling.
"A what?" Charlie said.
"A painting."
"No kidding?" Frank said. He looked into the loft's work area again, reappraising the paintings. "For those, huh?" he said.
"Any of these valuable paintings missing?" Charlie asked, stressing the word "valuable" so that it conveyed vast disbelief.
"No."
"So nothing's missing, right?"
"No, but…"
"So why'd you call us?"
"I called you because two people were murdered…"
"But not in this precinct, right?"
"What's that got…?"
"You shoulda called the Eight-Seven," Charlie said. "They the ones working the homicides, they the ones you shoulda called."
"Thanks a lot," Riley said.
"Don't mention it," Charlie said. "I write up my report, I'll mention the Eight-Seven is already on this."
"You oughta put bars on that window," Frank said. "Fire escape out there, all these paintings the lady says are valuable…" He shrugged skeptically. "You get yourself bars on that window so nobody can get in."