“How did she take it?”
“The bit- the girl? Tommy said she was fucking surprised.”
“Surprised that he’d tracked her down?”
Fenn shook his head. “Surprised by the whole thing. According to him, she didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Didn’t know about the pictures or the letter, didn’t know anything about a squeeze. According to Tommy, it was all a big shock.”
“He believed her?”
Fenn shrugged. “I told him this chick could sell ice to Eskimos, but still he bought it.”
“But not you?”
“I knew her. I also know that after their talk we never heard another word about pictures or threats or sending cash. To me, that says she took the hint.”
“To the cops, it might say you killed her.”
Fenn slapped his hand on the desk. His voice was tight and loud. “Don’t you listen? I had no reason to kill her. Those pictures were no threat to me, they were just an annoyance. She was just an annoyance. Shit, if I was planning something like that, do you think I would’ve sent Tommy out looking for her that way? It wasn’t exactly a secret what he was doing.”
“Maybe things were different once you found her. Something she said, maybe, or something she did…”
“What- some kind of a crime of passion? I told you, I never even saw her. And I was out of the country when she died.” I shook my head. “You don’t believe it,” Fenn said, “here- look.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila envelope and slid it across the desk.
I looked inside. There were fifteen pages, all copies- airline tickets and hotel receipts mostly. Rio, SДѓo Paulo, Buenos Aires, Punta del Este, then back to Rio- three weeks, just as Vickers had said. I tossed it back to him.
“These don’t mean anything. You could’ve hired it out.”
Fenn shook his head, and the grin began to reappear. “You just can’t make up your mind, can you? ‘Hired it out’ or ‘crime of passion’- which is it? Hiring somebody means planning, and if I was planning it, I wouldn’t have had Tommy out beating the bushes so loud. And flipping out means I had to be there- which you can see I wasn’t. On top of which, I had no fucking reason to do anything to this girl besides sue the hell out of her.
“For chrissakes, March, for a guy who’s supposed to be smart, you got your head squarely up your ass.”
26
Cold and fatigue sat like a yoke on my shoulders, and I leaned heavily in the elevator as it rose. It was only seven o’clock, but it felt like years since I’d left my apartment to meet Paul Darrow. I opened my door to the smell of thyme and warm bread, and to Clare at the kitchen counter, leafing through a shiny magazine. I hung my coat and poured a cranberry juice and looked in the pot that was heating on the stove. A thick stew simmered inside.
“You cooked?” I asked.
Clare smiled. “If by cooking you mean buying it, putting it in the pot, and turning on the heat- then, yes. It’s an old family recipe I picked up at the hem of Mother’s cocktail dress.” I smiled back at her, but it turned into a yawn midway.
“This’ll keep,” she said. “Why don’t you rest for a while?” Which sounded like a fine idea- a deeply brilliant idea- except that Mitchell Fenn’s wide smile lit the darkness whenever I closed my eyes, and I knew that I should call Mike Metz. As it happened, I wasn’t fifteen minutes tossing on the sofa when he called me. I carried the phone into the bedroom.
I told Mike how it went with Fenn and there was silence when I was done, and then a moment’s irritation.
“I thought you were just going to follow him,” Mike said.
“An opportunity presented itself,” I said, “and, anyway, no blood was spilled.”
“That’s comforting. Do you buy his story?”
I’d had a slow cab ride home to think about it. “Grudgingly,” I said.
“So do I. And it presents an interesting scenario- of someone using Holly’s videos for blackmail, and of Holly finding out. Those are circumstances for violence, and it’s a story the police will take seriously.”
“It suggests someone close to her- close enough to have access to her unedited work, anyway.”
“Someone like a boyfriend, for instance.”
“That’s one possibility.”
“With Coyle’s record, it’s the possibility the cops will focus on. And speaking of which, it’s time to call them- past time, really. Have you talked to David about Stephanie?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Jesus,” Mike sighed. “You have to do it, John. We need to know-”
“I know, I know- I’ll call him tonight.”
And I did, right after I got off the phone with Mike. I had no idea of what to say to him, and I was relieved when his recorded voice came on. I thought about just hanging up, but ultimately I left a message. Call me.
I came out of the bedroom as Clare was setting a bowl of stew and a loaf of peasant bread on the table. She carried her own bowl over and sat.
“You didn’t seem to be doing much resting,” she said. I shook my head and tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew. “I won’t ask about your day at the office,” she said. “’Cause then you’d have to kill me, and you’re too tired now.”
I smiled. “So thoughtful. How did it go with your lawyer?”
“No surprises,” Clare said. “The pre-nup spells it all out, and according to Jay no one’s arguing anything. It’s a matter of filings and court calendars now.”
I nodded. “And afterward?”
A little smile crossed Clare’s face. “Afterward what?”
“Do you have…”
“Plans?” Clare asked. I nodded. “I’ve been thinking about going back to gallery work,” she said, “or maybe something else. I’m in no rush. And as far as housing goes…I figured I’d just move in here.” I stopped chewing for half a second- not even that long- but it was long enough for Clare to have her fun.
Her smile was wicked and her cheeks turned pink. “Never a camera when you need one.”
I shook my head. “And I called you thoughtful,” I muttered, which made her laugh more.
Later, I stretched out next to her in bed, my head against her hip. Clare was sitting up, reading, and her fingers traced my hairline. My eyes were heavy doors.
“I don’t mind your staying,” I said as they were closing.
“I know,” she whispered.
I was blind and deaf, and Clare shook me awake for the telephone. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and looked at the clock, and didn’t believe that it was seven a.m. I read the caller ID.
“Shit,” I sighed. It was David, and I still had no idea what to say. As it turned out, he did the talking.
The voice on the line was nothing I’d heard from him before: trembling, fragile, and utterly lost. “The police are downstairs, Johnny. They want to come up.”
27
Pitt Street runs through the heart of the Lower East Side, several miles south of where my brother lives, and usually a world awaythough not that Tuesday morning. That morning, David’s world had collapsed to the size of the narrow, windowless room where we sat and waited and watched a clock tick to ten. The Seventh Precinct station house is a new building, but the beige walls around us seemed a hundred years old, and the thick air older still. We were on one side of a metal table, Mike and I, and David in between. He was silent and motionless, and he had the blasted look of a man who’s recently survived a terrible storm. Except the storm was just beginning, and survival was very much an open question.
In David’s apartment, the dance had been all cordiality and caution, everyone polite and all the threats implicit. The two detectives sent to fetch him, Russo and Conlon, were large and tired-looking and almost bored with the proceedings. They’d been happy to wait until Mike and I arrived before talking to David, and they’d never uttered the word “arrest” or “suspect,” never even hinted at them. They kept their explanations of why they’d come vague- something about help with an investigation, a Jane Doe they’d been trying to identify for over a week- and they acted as if a summons to a police station was an unremarkable thing, a bureaucratic nuisance no more important than an expired dog license.