“So you’d never met him, never even seen a photo of him, before he dropped into your gallery one day and said he wanted to buy my stuff?”
“What are you getting at?”
“How do you know that the man you spoke to is Jay Jykynstyl? Because he said so?”
“No. Exactly the opposite.”
“He said he wasn’t Jay Jykynstyl?”
“He said his name was Jay. Just Jay.”
“So how…?”
“I kept asking him, told him it would be very difficult to do business with him without knowing his full name, that it was ridiculous for me not to know who I was dealing with when so much money would be involved.”
“And he said… what?”
“He said Javits. His name was Jay Javits.”
“Like Jacob Javits? The guy who used to be a senator?”
“Right, but he said it sort of odd like, like the name just occurred to him and he felt he had to say something because I was making a big issue out of it. Dave, tell me why the fuck we’re talking about this. I want to know right now what happened today.”
“What happened is… it became plain that this whole deal is bullshit. I believe I was drugged and that lunch was some kind of setup that had nothing to do with my artwork.”
“That’s insane.”
“Getting back to the man’s identity-he told you his name was Jay Javits and you concluded from that that his name was Jay Jykynstyl?”
“Not like that, no. Don’t be silly. During the course of our conversation, we were talking about how pretty the lake was, and he mentioned he could see it from his room, so I asked him where he was staying, and he told me at a very beautiful inn, like he didn’t want me to know the name. So later I called the Huntington, the most exclusive inn on the lake, and I asked if they had a Jay Javits registered there. At first the guy sounded confused, and then he asked me if maybe I had the name wrong. And I said sure, I’m getting older and my hearing is bad and sometimes I get names wrong. I tried to sound pathetic.”
“And you think you succeeded?”
“I must have. He said, ‘Could the person you want be named Jykynstyl?’ ”
“I asked him to spell the name, and he did, and I thought to myself, ‘Holy fucking Christ, is it really possible?’ So I asked him to describe this Jykynstyl guest, and he did, and it was obviously the same guy who had come to the gallery. So, you see, he didn’t want me to know who he was, but I found out.”
Gurney was silent. He thought a far more likely possibility was that Sonya had been smoothly manipulated into believing that the man was Jykynstyl-in a way that would leave her with no doubts about her conclusion. The subtlety and expertise of the con job was almost more disturbing than the con itself.
“You still there, David?”
“I need to make some more calls, and then I’ll get back to you.”
“You still haven’t told me what happened.”
“I have no idea what happened-other than the fact that I was lied to, drugged, driven around the city in a blackout, and threatened. Why and by whom I have no idea. I’m doing my best to find out. And I will find out.” The optimism in those last five words bore little relationship to the anger, fear, and confusion he felt. He promised again to get back to her.
His next call was to Madeleine. He made it without thinking about what he was going to say or checking the time. It wasn’t until she picked up with a sleepy sound in her voice that he glanced at the dashboard clock and saw that it was 10:04 P.M.
“I was wondering when you’d finally call,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Pretty much. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Things were a little nuts this afternoon.”
“What do you mean, ‘pretty much’?”
“Huh? Oh, I mean I’m okay, just in the middle of a little mystery.”
“How little?”
“Hard to say. But it seems that the Jykynstyl thing is some kind of con. I’ve been sort of running around tonight trying to get a handle on it.”
“What happened?” She was totally alert now, speaking in the perfectly calm voice that both masked and exposed her concern.
He was aware that he had a choice. He could relate everything he knew and feared, regardless of the effect on her. Or he could present a less complete, less disturbing version. In what he would later see as a self-deluding bit of fancy dancing, he chose the latter as a first step and told himself he would present the whole story as soon as he understood it better himself.
“I started feeling funny at lunch, and later, in the car, I was having trouble remembering the conversation we’d had.” He told himself that this was true, albeit somewhat minimized.
“Sounds like you were drunk.” Her voice was more questioning than assertive.
“Maybe. But… I’m not sure.”
“You think you were drugged?”
“It’s one of the possibilities I’ve been considering. Even though it doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, I’ve been checking the place out, and all I know for sure is that there’s something wrong about the whole situation-and the hundred-thousand-dollar offer is almost certainly baloney. But what I actually called to say is that I’m just leaving Manhattan and I should be home in about two and a half hours. I’m really sorry I didn’t call earlier.”
“Don’t race.”
“See you soon. Love you.”
He nearly missed the last exit from the Harlem River Drive to the GW Bridge. With a quick glance to his right, he swerved into the exit lane and onto the ramp, triggering the blare of an indignant car horn.
It was too late to call Kline. But if Hardwick was indeed back on the case, he might know something about the Karnala inquiry and Kline’s phone-message reference to the Skard family. With a little luck, Hardwick would be awake, would answer the phone, and be willing to talk.
All three turned out to be true.
“What’s up, Sherlock? You couldn’t wait till morning to congratulate me on my reinstatement?”
“Congratulations.”
“Apparently you got everybody believing that Mapleshade grads are dropping like flies and everybody in the world has to be interviewed-which has created this huge manpower crunch that forced Rodriguez to bring me back into it. Almost made his head explode.”
“I’m glad you’re back. I have a couple of questions.”
“About the pooch?”
“Pooch?”
“The one that dug up Kiki.”
“The hell are you talking about, Jack?”
“Marian Eliot’s curious Airedale. You haven’t heard?”
“Tell me.”
“She was out working in her rose garden with Melpomene tied to a tree.”
“Who?”
“The Airedale’s name is Melpomene. Very sophisticated bitch. Somehow Melpomene manages to untie her rope. She wanders over behind the Muller house, starts rooting around in back of the woodshed. By the time Old Lady Eliot gets over there to retrieve her, Melpomene’s got a pretty good hole going. Something catches Old Lady Eliot’s eye. Guess what?”
“Jack, for Christ’s sake, just tell me.”
“She thought it was one of her gardening gloves.”
“For Christ’s sake, Jack…”
“Think about it. What might look like a glove?”
“Jack…”
“It was a decomposed hand.”
“And this hand was attached to Kiki Muller, the woman who supposedly ran off with Hector Flores?”
“The very same.”
Gurney was silent for a good five seconds.
“You got the wheels turning, Sherlock? Deducing, inducing, whatever the hell you do?”
“How did Kiki’s husband react to this?”
“Crazy Carl? Trainman under the tree? No reaction at all. I think his shrink has him so zapped on Xanax he’s beyond reaction. Fucking zombie. Or he’s putting on a hell of an act.”