It was just getting dark. She’d go for a walk and later grab the subway to SoHo and cruise some of the shops, take in a movie at the Angelika, maybe get an idea for her next video. Lori wasn’t one to work on only one program at a time, especially now that she felt she had a real handle on this ozone project.
Always be on the lookout for the next subject, she reminded herself, remembering the day she wrote that in class and underlined it.
Lori got dressed—short skirt, boots, and the only jungle print she owned, a short, faux-fur-lined jacket, just for moods like this.
She left her building and headed west toward Eighth, waving to the cops in the sedan as she passed them, on the other side of the street. She wondered if they had a photo of Billy taped to the dashboard—well, that was how they did stakeouts in the movies, anyway. She hoped by now they’d cleared up the little problem with Billy’s story.
She turned south on Eighth and stopped to look at fuzzy scarves hanging from a makeshift post. The street vendor was packing up. Sometimes you got deals if the guy wanted to push some goods quickly before he left for the day. She tried to figure how long the feathery scarf fad would last and whether she should bother buying some yarn and knitting a few for Christmas presents. She’d done a pathetic job so far on her list, but maybe she could get back on track now.
Behind the vendor, at the curb, was a mounted policeman, his pale blue helmet catching light from a streetlamp just coming on. Lori wondered if it was the same redheaded cop who’d blocked her out of her apartment the other day. The cop had pulled his horse between two parked cars. Two young women in tight jeans and jungle prints not unlike her own were cozying up to the horse and rider.
“So, you have any advice on where to have a good time around here?” one young woman asked the cop. She ran her hand along the yellow band across the animal’s forehead.
The horse had reflector lights strapped to its ankles. Lori wouldn’t have been surprised if there was some kind of mechanism in the lights to keep the animals docile while cars whizzed by and single women flirted with their riders.
“You asking about a good time in New York?” The cop snorted, the way Lori imagined his horse would while clearing his nostrils. “All over the place. There’s all kindsa things goin’ on.”
“How about you? Where do you go for a good time?” the other woman asked, twirling her scarf, a pink and turquoise boa.
Lori dropped the nubby peach and cream scarf she’d been thinking of buying. She contemplated giving up all the scarves she now owned, trading them in for a good, smooth-textured, woolen one. As of this moment, the fashion had run its course as far as she was concerned.
The cop laughed, tilting his head back. “Me? Hey, I’m married, you know. But tell me what kinda guys you’re lookin’ for. I know a lot of single cops, believe me.”
Lori moved on, smiling. It was the little things in New York City, she mused—things like these one-minute vignettes—that made a filmmaker’s life easy.
An image of the letter with the vague threats flashed through Lori’s mind, ruining her good mood. She’d been so worried about it since she learned it wasn’t junk mail. Enough people have been hurt. Do not expose this.
Uncle Matt told her about the similar note the cops had found in Amber’s apartment. That letter had talked about footage. Maybe if she’d seen the word “footage” in her own mail she would have responded more like a professional investigator. She might have tried to determine the origin from the partial logo.
Funny how she lost her journalistic edge when it came to her personal life.
Lori tried to rid her mind of the whole affair, but the cartoonish family logo stuck in her mind. It seemed downright twisted, the contents of the letter being so not family-friendly.
Closer to Times Square, Lori cut over to Broadway, where the crowds were elbow to elbow from the store and restaurant windows all the way out to the curb. There was nothing like teeming masses to give you anonymity and the freedom to let your mind wander. Lori loved it. She did her best thinking while she was walking on a street bustling with activity or sitting alone in the middle of a busy coffee shop. Now that most cafés had Internet access, her home-away-from-home offices were even better.
Just before the next intersection Lori stopped in her tracks, an idea taking hold. This maneuver nearly caused the couple behind her holding hands to trip over her. Even pedestrians tailgate in New York City, she thought.
She crossed the street to the semicircular driveway of a big hotel and got in line for the cab dispatcher, ignoring the sign about the service being for hotel residents only. As if!
She was about sixth in line. Definitely a better shot than trying to wave down a cab on her own. After a few cold minutes, she was on her way.
“Family Suites Hotel,” she told the cabbie.
Lori had asked to be let out a block away from Family Suites so she could get her bearings and a feel for the area. She’d never been on this street, but she was pretty familiar with the Lower East Side from the days when she volunteered at the Tenement Museum. She knew she was close to the leather district and other trendy shopping. Every other parking meter had a bike attached to it with a simple chain, so the residents must have some feeling of security, Lori thought.
Here and there she saw a new high-rise apartment house with still-unweathered light red brick, but the deep red hues of the older tenements reminded her of an Edward Hopper painting. Like many New York neighborhoods, this one would look better on the inside than the outside, Lori was sure. She remembered tracking down an address in a district that was new to her and being put off by graffiti on all the roll-up metal security doors; once inside the building, she’d found fresh paint, polished fixtures, and newly sanded floors. Not that much different from her own building, now that she thought of it, which was no treat to look at on the outside.
Family Suites was in the middle of a block. She hoped it had undergone a similar interior renovation, because it was about as rundown a place as she’d seen. Not one you’d be likely to take your kids to without a solid recommendation.
Also, she’d happened to choose the evening before rubbish pickup for this zone. She passed mounds of black garbage bags at the edge of the sidewalk, toppling into the gutter and often in her path. From the smell Lori figured more than one of them had sprung a leak.
She smiled at the sign warning about a penalty for honking your horn. In fact, the traffic was relatively quiet, she noticed, now that she was paying attention. Now there was a tough job for a cop—find the honking horn and slap a fine on it.
Lori realized she had no plan for what she would do once inside the hotel. It wasn’t as if she had a photo of Billy Keenan to show the clerk. She recalled the familiar scene replayed on so many TV crime dramas: The cop shows a photograph to someone behind a counter. Have you seen this man around here? She should have thought to look among Amber’s things to see if there was a snapshot of her brother, although the police still had most of what Amber had left behind in her corner of the loft.
She should at least be able to finagle a copy of the letterhead to compare with the partial logo on the letter she’d received, to be sure the note originated here.
A card shop across the street gave Lori an idea. Sure enough, they had a small office supply section. Lori bought an inexpensive leather-like portfolio. She wished she hadn’t worn her jungle print jacket, but she couldn’t afford to buy a new coat just for a prop. She tucked her hair demurely under her black chenille hat and pulled at her skirt. She’d have to wing it.
She climbed the half flight to the front entrance of Family Suites and opened the door. She was in luck. Not a scary dump. The lobby was small but well maintained, decorated with tall plants—she couldn’t tell if they were real or not—and a single grouping of a wicker sofa, three easy chairs, and a small table with a lamp.
Lori approached the registration desk, waiting her turn after a man in a dark overcoat. The clerk was young and pimply, as she
’d hoped. She wasn’t ready to deal with a veteran of the hotel wars. The lobby was otherwise empty, not a family in sight.
The dark overcoat slipped away toward the elevator. Time for Lori’s performance. She cleared her throat and silently rehearsed a more professional-sounding name than Lori Pizzano.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Margaret Burnside, of Cutting Edge Stationery,” Lori said. She placed her new portfolio on the counter, hoping there was no other price tag than the one she’d peeled off moments before. She extended her hand. “Eddie, is it?” she asked, reading his cab-yellow name badge. “I’m here about the new stationery designs you wanted to talk about. I know I’m a little late, but my plane was delayed.”
Eddie, who reminded her of the pudgy boy everyone laughed at in seventh grade, scratched his head. “Gee, nobody told me about this. And there’s nobody else here right now,” he said. Lori wondered if he heard her sigh of relief.
Lori clicked her tongue, an I’m-slightly-annoyed sound. “Well, that’s disappointing,” she said.
“I’m really sorry. You probably made the appointment with Mr. Braguine, the manager.”
Lori nodded. “Yes, that was the name.”
“He won’t be in until the morning, about ten o’clock. I have his emergency number.”
A stationery emergency? Lori waved her hand. “No, no, I suppose my secretary could have gotten the message wrong. Well, how about this, can you at least get me a copy of your current letterhead?”
“You mean, like the paper and envelopes?”
“Yes, the paper and envelopes,” Lori said. Geesh.
Eddie reached down and fumbled for a few seconds and came up with an information folder like the kind in hotel rooms everywhere. “It’s all in here,” he said, poking at the package with a chubby finger.
Though she’d known what to expect, Lori’s stomach did a small flip when she saw the logo on the outside of the folder. Multicolor stick figures. Mommy in red with a triangle skirt, Daddy in blue, and a gender-neutral green and yellow child between them. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll start with this.”
“Okay, and I’m sorry about the appointment and all.”
“Well, you’ve been very helpful. Oh, one other thing. Would you mind terribly if I just sit here in the lobby for a few minutes and catch up on my paperwork? I’ve been traveling all day.” Lori hoped all this lying counted as a research technique and was not a sin. Or, even more important to her earthly life, a crime.
Three young women entered the lobby, probably for legitimate reasons, distracting Eddie for a moment. He turned back to Lori. “Uh, sure. I guess it would be okay,” he said to Lori, scratching his head again and making Lori wonder about when the exterminator was next due to visit the building.
“Thanks so much,” Lori said. She pretended to fish around in her empty portfolio. “I guess I’m out of business cards, but I’ll write down my contact information before I leave.”
By now Eddie’s attention had shifted entirely to the new customers, who’d produced a printout of a reservation form.
Lori sat on one of the dark wicker easy chairs where she was partly hidden but could see both the front entrance and the bank of elevators. What had made her think this was a good idea? she asked herself. Even if she did see Billy, it wouldn’t mean he’d been here longer than since Monday. Nor would it mean he wrote the notes.
Well, it was warm inside and she had nothing better to do. She settled back and surveyed the lobby, making a note of the location of the exit signs. She wouldn’t want to miss someone coming in a side door.
She wished she’d thought to bring a Thermos of coffee, to make the picture complete.
Forty or so minutes later, Lori was about to call it quits. If Billy ever did have a room here, he’d probably checked out anyway. There was very little traffic in the lobby, and she couldn’t stay much longer without appearing suspicious. It was hard to fake paperwork when all she had was her small steno notebook and the folder Eddie had given her. Besides, the thin pad on the wicker chair was getting uncomfortable. Eddie glanced over at her every now and then, causing Lori’s heart to skip as she imagined his finally seeing through her act and calling the police about a fraud and a loiterer.
Lori made a show of zipping up her portfolio after a fruitful work session.
Ping.
The elevator doors opened, as they had about every ten minutes since Lori arrived. She barely gave them a glance this time. Then she stopped halfway off the chair and sat back down.
One of two women exiting the elevator looked familiar. Lori squinted to favor her long-distance eye. Rachel Hartman? Well, well, it was the PR woman from Blake Manufacturing. She was with a woman of approximately the same height, a little younger, and much frumpier.
Her sister from L.A. Lori remembered Rachel’s comment about her sister and downtown lodging.
Lori used her elbow to push her purse to the floor behind the small table next to her, between her chair and the sofa. She twisted around to retrieve the bag, turning her back on the women, fumbling until she was sure they’d passed her.
Rachel Hartman was writing threatening letters to her and Amber? Or, even more incomprehensible, Rachel’s sister, if that’s who the other woman was, authored the letters?
Lori had no idea what to do. They were still at the exit, wrapping scarves around their necks and pulling on gloves. Lori could hear part of their conversation—bits of weather talk mostly, plus the mention of a martini. Rachel’s distinctive voice, with its slight lisp, ended whatever uncertainty Lori had about who the woman was.
She thought of confronting the women. She might ask them, Have you written any letters lately?
Not a good idea. She considered waiting until they left, then going to the desk again, to see if she could find out Rachel’s sister’s name, room number—something that might give her a clue as to whether the letters were generated by either of them. No, she’d shot her wad with Eddie; she couldn’t make up another story for him.
When the two women left the building, Lori gathered her things quickly and followed them out the door. The good news was that Eddie must have been on a break in back and didn’t see this part of her act.
Her ad hoc plan was to follow Rachel and her companion at a discreet distance—but just as Lori got to the street, she saw her marks get into a cab, probably the quickest pickup she’d ever seen. Why wasn’t taxi service slow when you needed it to be?
Lori let out a long sigh, watching her breath float after the cab, disappointed in her own investigative skills.
For now she’d have to be content with a folder of Family Suites stationery and information as the fruit of her labor. She’d lost her desire to cut over a couple of streets to the major shopping area and decided to go home instead. She had homework to do for tomorrow’s meeting at Curry Industries, and maybe a glass of wine would help her figure out how and if Rachel was connected to the threatening letters.
Lori walked to the nearest subway stop and headed down the stairs. No way would two fares be lucky in the same place on the same night, she thought—it would be impossible to catch a cab before she froze to death.
On the train rattling through a tunnel somewhere between West Fourth Street and Twenty-third Street, Lori’s subconscious kicked in and made some connections. She needed to cue up the Blake video and look more closely at the ankle Craig had been so fascinated by.
CHAPTER TWENTY-REE
Lori got to work as soon as she shed the several pounds of outer clothing it took to keep her warm in these temperatures. She was glad she’d left the heat up in the apartment while she was gone. Wasteful, but she figured it was an okay trade-off for having no A/C in the summer.
She loaded the Blake video into her second VCR, next to her computer, plugged her video capture card into a USB port, and hooked the patch cable to her Mac. She clicked on the editing suite and brought up the footage. Not footage anymore, she thought, just a bunch of pixels.
On the subway
Lori had remembered the strange scene on the Blake video at the end of the series of welding interviews. When Lori had first seen the image she’d had the same thought as Craig—someone was doing the deed on the floor of an office in the Blake Manufacturing building. But the woman who belonged to the foot could have been crawling around the floor to find something she’d dropped.
Or maybe she’d fainted. Lori gulped. Or was dead.
Back to the adulterer theory, she thought, pushing a vision of Amber away. Maybe it would have been better if she’d seen Amber’s body, instead of having her mind conjure up one horrible scene after another as it had been doing the last few days.
Now she’d try to determine if that was Rachel on the video. Rachel’s calf and foot, anyway. It was a long shot, but worth a try. Maybe she’d be able to tell whose office the person was in or see a snatch of clothing of the alleged sex partner.
She pulled her chair closer to the monitor and found the frames she needed: most likely an office floor, showing the edge of a desk, the bottom of a file cabinet, and a woman’s leg, from midcalf to shoe. With her box tool she drew dashed lines around the file cabinet, capturing the top of the lower drawer. She zoomed in. Maybe the printed label would tell her something. She clicked in as far as she could, but all she could make out were letters of the alphabet, N—or M?—to T. Nothing useful.
Lori stepped along, frame by frame, moving across the floor to the woman’s leg, down to her ankle, until she came to a bracelet. Aha. She remembered that Rachel wore an ankle bracelet on the day of their interview—and so did fifty percent of the women in Manhattan, Lori thought. Her memory of the design of Rachel’s bracelet wasn’t that good, either, just that it was gold and shiny and had a flat plate where a name might have been engraved. Another dead end.
She scanned forward and backward among the frames a few times and finally gave up. Lori knew that even with all her zooming and enhancement capabilities she wouldn’t be able to find what wasn’t on the tape in the first place, and that was determined by the camera settings. She and Amber shook their heads all the time over television crime shows where a technician would enhance a videotape of a license plate that was shot at a great distance, or a blurry reflection from a mirror, and the images would end up clearer than if you’d been standing there.
The Oxygen Murder Page 20
