"He developed some leads. He was sure it was a child porno ring. The nanny had performed in porn so she knew those kinds of fucks. Jack figured they put her up to the snatch, then something went wrong, the kid died on them, they got scared, killed the au pair, cut her up, and tossed her torso in Delamere Lake."
Now that I've got Dove's body down, I start on a more elaborate rendering of her face.
"I've heard that theory," I tell him. "It's also the police theory. But the cops never got anywhere with it."
"They didn’t have Jack's connections. He had ways of finding out who made those kinds of films."
"You're saying that for the two and a half years of the affair, Cody was trying to track those people down?"
"He was financing it. It was an expensive project, not an easy one either. People who do that stuff operate undercover. ‘I'm finally getting close to the fucks, Jurg,’ he told me that summer. He hated people who'd kill a kid. He couldn't wait to get his hands on them, make then wish they'd never been born."
"Okay if we take a break?" Dove asks.
We break, she gathers herself into a soft white robe, and withdraws to her bathroom for a while. When she comes out, her eyes flash brilliantly and there's sassiness in her gait.
"Kitten's gettin' hungry," she says, reassuming her position on the bed. "Daddy Cat want to feed his bitch?"
I smile at the mixed metaphors while Jurgen fetches the platter of hors d'oeuvres, brings it to the bed, dangles food above her mouth, then feigns fear when she grins, snaps her jaws, lasciviously chews and swallows.
"She snaps like an alligator," he says.
"Alley cat," she corrects.
Hunger assuaged, she resumes posing. I'm pleased with my drawing, think it's going to be one of my best. I also think Jurgen owes me more for it than he's given. I decide to provoke him by making another slighting remark about Jack.
"Cody knew a lot of gossip. I suspect from time to time he tipped Waldo off."
"So what? They liked to gab."
"Was Cody in on Waldo's blackmail deals? Did he get a cut?"
"You got him all wrong!" Jurgen's angry again. "Jack was a stand-up guy. Compared with him, Waldo was a creep and Maritz was just something you piss on."
"How did Rakoubian fit in?"
"Max took the pictures, Maritz squeezed the people."
"So it was a three-way deal?"
Jurgen nods. "Say Waldo found out a couple, both married to other people, were having an affair. He'd tell Maritz, Maritz would follow them, get the goods, then bring in Max to take pictures. Then Maritz would sell the pictures to the lovers and split his take with Waldo."
"Did Mrs. Fulraine know about this?"
"She might have. Jack might have told her."
"Or Max?"
"Yeah, Max might have mentioned it to her. They were pretty tight there for a while."
"When Waldo spoke to the police after the killings, he said some pretty mean things about Mrs. Fulraine. Did you hear anything about them having a fight?"
"Can't remember, but that sounds about right."
I'm rapidly finishing up the drawing, sketching the sheeting, going for a classic drapery effect.
"Something I forgot to mention the other day," Jurgen says. "Another reason I know Jack didn't order those killings."
"What?"
"I think Jack knew Mrs. Fulraine was having an affair with the teacher. I think he even approved. Don't know why." Jurgen shakes his head. "There was something going on there I didn't get."
Interesting.
I finish the drawing. Dove relaxes, slips again into her white robe, and joins Jurgen at my easel to take a look.
"Oh, real good!" she coos. She slips her arm around Jurgen. "think so, sweetpea?
"It's excellent," Jurgen agrees.
Dove slips her hand inside the waistband of Jurgen's pants.
"I'm all cramped out from lying so still."
She leans against him, whispers something into his ear while probing her hand deeper.
"Dove wonders if you'd like to party with us," Jurgen says.
I look at her. She's grinning at me, sassy and kittenish.
"That's very sweet," I tell her. "I'm flattered, but I think I'd better pass. Time for the lonely artist to be on his way."
Dove shrugs slightly to show disappointment. Jurgen looks relieved.
Dove offers me her hand. "Thank you, David. You made a beautiful picture."
"Easy," I tell her, "when the sitter's so beautiful."
We embrace, all awkwardness past, everyone happy now.
Outside the building. I decide against walking back to the hotel. The streets are too empty, the night too ominous. I slip the doorman a couple of bucks, ask him to call me a cab. When it comes and we take off for the Townsend, I notice headlights come on in a car parked across the street. The same car does a U-turn, then follows us back to the hotel. It slows when I get out, then, before I have a chance to see who's driving, picks up speed and rounds the corner.
I pause in the lobby. Am I imagining things? Investigating a twenty-six-year-old murder could hardly be a threat, especially as all my prime suspects – Jack Cody, Andrew Fulraine, Max Rakoubian, and Dad – are dead.
I open the door to Waldo's, check the room, survey the Monday night media crowd. Conversation seems more active than usual, perhaps because with the start of the defense presentation, the Foster trial is finally picking up.
I spot Foster's attorney sitting with Spencer Deval and an aggressive female reporter from The Star. Judge Winterson has forbidden the lawyers to talk about the case, but there's nothing to prevent them from socializing with journalists, then leaking information with little eyebrow moves and nods.
I take a seat at the bar, order a beer, ask Tony where Sylvie is tonight.
"She was here, then got bored. I think she went out to a jazz club with the guy from Rolling Stone."
I ask him about Waldo Channing's demise, whether he was working the bar the day Waldo dropped.
Tony nods. "It was ten years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was standing right where I'm standing now. He was sitting in his usual spot, the table beneath the painting. ‘Course the painting wasn't up there then. Anyhow, it was a little after 5 p.m.. Mr. C was sitting there alone like he often did afternoons, finishing up his column on a yellow legal pad. That's how he wrote it, longhand right here in the hotel lounge, then he'd call The Times-Dispatch and they'd send over a runner to pick it up. Mr. C was nursing his usual, a dry vodka martini with a twist. Suddenly he calls out to me: "Tony! I look over at him, see him rise up out of his chair, then he drops there on the carpet. Died instantly. Heart attack. None of us could believe it. The man was so alive. You'd feel his energy whenever he walked into the room. I was the first one who got to him. Was me who closed his eyes. A sad day, one I'll never forget. ‘Course a month later we had a big party here like he said we should in his will. That's when management decided to rename the lounge to honor the memory of the man."
Tony squeezes shut his eyes. When he opens them, I detect a little moisture.
"You know, he left his entire estate to Spencer Deval, the house, cars, all his art and furniture, but he also left mementoes to all the people he liked – pens, watches, cuff links, stuff like that. And not just to important people, to the little people, too, folks he loved and wrote about – copy boys, shoeshine boys, cabbies, ushers, cabbies, ushers, doormen, even the restroom attendants here at the hotel. Me, I got what he used to call his lucky piece. I'll show it to you."
Tony reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gold coin about the size of a fifty-cent piece, and places it gently on the bar.
"that's a 1918 Double Eagle, year of Mr. C's birth."
I make a quick calculation. If Waldo was born in 1918, he was seventy-two when he died, fifty-six when Flamingo took place. It seems a stretch to imagine a man that age, no matter how angry or threatened, coldly executing Barbara and Tom.