I reached out for the radio and switched it on and listened to the news reports of the biggest blizzard in a decade. I loved the snow in the city. Lily had loved it. She would lie in bed and look out and yawn and yearn for more snow, for the kind of storm that paralyzed the city and where people skied to work on Fifth Avenue and stayed late in neighborhood bars and sometimes fell in love. I should have paid more attention to Lily.
Where women were concerned, I was usually a jerk. I knew I should settle down with Maxine. She was fun and smart and pretty. We had nice times in bed and out. I loved her girls; we could have a life. What difference did it make if I wasn't exactly besotted with her? So what if Lily had made me feel better than I was, smarter, more connected to the world; Lily was gone for good.
From the kitchen the smell of coffee reached me and I forced myself out of bed and went and poured some in a mug. I sat at the counter and drank it and tried to eat the eggs I fried and couldn't. My jaw hurt. I stared at a cereal box. Everything, the words on the box, the pieces of Billy's case, seemed distant and disconnected. The fragments of the puzzle drifted free in my head like mental garbage and I tried to put them together and knew something was missing.
I spilled some of the coffee and hopped around for a while like a scalded cat, and then went and took a hot shower and wrapped myself in a robe and went back for more coffee.
Suddenly I noticed the red light blinking on the answering machine and I played the messages. One was from the nursing home in Haifa. I called back, and got the nurse who said my mother had been calling for me by name; for years she hadn't known who I was or my name, but now she had said it out loud: Artyom, she had called. Artemy!
Once, years earlier, I had picked up the phone and heard her voice, my mother, speaking Russian, calling to me: get me out of here, Artyom, get me out, your father has locked me up, I'm locked up, help me! The message on my answering machine had lasted twenty minutes, her repeating herself over and over.
Now I got through to her floor at the nursing home. She was asleep, the attendant said, and muttered something in Hebrew I didn't understand. Call back, she said after that. Call tomorrow.
On the shelf above the desk I kept a row of dictionaries: Russian, French, Hebrew, Arabic, most of them shabby now, left over from school or jobs I'd done a decade earlier. Two decades. I reached up for the Hebrew dictionary and then I saw it. The dictionaries had been moved. The Arabic dictionary was on its side. Someone had taken it down from the shelf, then put it back hastily. I put it on the desk and flipped through the pages, but there was nothing. I stared out of the window, unnerved.
Someone had been here, in my place, the only place I had ever owned. When I moved into the loft it had pipes hanging from the ceiling, stained linoleum on the concrete floor, a century of crud on the radiators and window sills crusted black from the filth that settles everywhere in New York. One of the windows was broken and a dead pigeon lay on the floor underneath it, surrounded by broken glass. The bird had shattered the glass when it flew through it and killed itself. The loft had taken me years to fix, but it was mine—at least the part that didn't belong to the bank.
Someone had been here and for a minute I hesitated, desperate to look for more evidence. But I had to go. Maxine had called earlier. She was coming into the city, to catch up on her paperwork at the office. She wanted to meet for coffee. I promised her, so I got dressed. I grabbed my gun and went out to meet Max, and put a wedge of paper in the front door so anyone who broke in would disturb it.
The snow was deep and soft and I tumbled into a pile of the stuff, got up, walked stiff legged to a coffee shop near Police Plaza. Max was waiting.
I said, "How'd you get into the city?"
"I caught a ride with a guy I know. A cop. It took hours," she said. "I did what you wanted, honey." She ignored the no smoking rule and pulled out a pack of Kools. The place was empty. It was a holiday, and with the snow piling up, the city was silent and lovely.
"You want one?"
"It's like smoking candy." I smiled and got one of my own. "I thought you quit."
"That was yesterday. Artie, I raised an issue on the clothes that will take them another twenty-four hours at least. You've got a day, OK, is that what you wanted? By then I'll know who else has been to see the kid's clothes. I'll get you the list, if you want. I know you saw them at the beach, but in case you want another look."
"Thank you. I didn't ask, but thank you."
"Yeah, you did. You just didn't say the words. Listen, I can't do this often, Artie, you can't pull me into your private stuff too often, OK? I did it this time because I know how you feel about that kid, Billy."
"I didn't mean to pull you in."
"But you do. You just do. You know how I am. As soon as # you tell me you need something on a job, you know I'll try and *help."
"I promise I'll try not to," I said. "You want me to see if I can do anything about who broke into your house?" I asked.
"No. I talked to a guy I know at my station house in Bay Ridge. He's a cousin of Mark's. He came and looked at everything and he helped me get the locks changed because you can imagine trying to get someone in this weather at the crack of dawn. I'm sure it was just some local creep. They weren't exactly prime time crooks looking for my diamonds."
"What about the kids?"
"I'll go get them tonight if this storm breaks, if I can even get a bus that's going upstate. Thank God today's a holiday. It's only assholes like you and me at work. But the kids have school tomorrow. I can't leave them up at Mark's mom forever; also I don't want to owe her, you know?"
"How come?"
"Like I said, I can't play the grieving widow anymore, and that's what she needs." She crushed her smoke out in a saucer on the table and got up.
"Say hi to the girls."
"Sure." Maxie was uneasy, she fumbled for her jacket, looked away from me.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she said and waved and started towards the door, then stopped suddenly, came back and sat opposite me. She took a deep breath.
"You OK?"
"Not really," she said.
Maxine took out her cigarettes. She took one out of the pack but didn't light it. She looked out of the window and then pulled a paper napkin from the metal dispenser and folded it into a triangle. She kept her eyes on her hands.
"What? Tell me." I reached for her hand, but she pulled back, sat up straight and looked at me.
"Artie, honey, I can't waste any more of my life. OK, so, it's like this: I'm in love with you. I was in love with you before Mark, but I knew it was no use, and I wanted kids and stuff and I loved him in a way, so I married him. But I'm still in love with you. You went with Lily, so I knew that was it and anyhow I was married." She fumbled with her cigarette, tearing the paper, pulling out the shreds of tobacco. "Look, I know this is a lousy time, everything coming down on you, your godson missing or whatever out by Brighton Beach, Billy is like your own, I understand. I think you kind of replaced Lily's little girl with him. Is that enough? More?"
"Go on."
"I want to give you the space to do this case, you know, but there's always stuff coming down in our jobs, so I can't go on waiting to talk to you between jobs and other women, and I don't want to talk about pizza all the time, I know it's code, it's shtick between us, it's a way we do things, but it's not enough for me. So, well, listen, I'm in love with you." She stopped and her eyes filled up and then she said, "So that's it."
Maxine tossed the broken cigarette on the table. "I want a life. I don't care about getting married again but I want a life with a guy in it who's home most of the time and who doesn't fuck around with other women. My girls are also crazy about you.
"Likewise," I said, feeling incredibly warm about Maxie. It surprised me. I didn't feel trapped. I didn't feel put upon. I felt warm.
"I love them," I said. "I love you."
"You do?"
"You know I do."
"I don't mean it
like that," she said. "I don't mean it like friends who have pizza and sometimes a fuck, OK, I don't want a fuck buddy, but someone who would be there when I look shitty and have a cold or to go on vacation with and for Christmas."
"Yes," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean do you want to get married?"
"In general?"
"In general, to me, whatever."
"Is this a proposal?"
"Sort of. Yeah. I don't know."
"Well, you let me know, OK, because this is just the kind of shit I was talking about. I need to know, Artie, honey, I have to get on." She got up. "I have to run now," she said. "I really have to go."
"So you want to do pizza next weekend?"
"You're not listening."
"I meant it as a joke."
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "I don't think so, Artie. The pizza, I mean. But thanks."
"Can I come to the girls' birthday party anyway?"
"Sure you can, honey. Of course," she said and having sat down again, unfolded her long legs and got up and went back out of the door. I saw her through the glass as she walked, back to me. She gave a jaunty wave but without looking back.
I watched her go, loping along the street, and thought what a jerk I was not to run after her. It was as if I was glued to the chair in the coffee shop, my face pressed against the window, watching her go, unable to follow, wanting to follow. No, what I wanted was to want it. To want the thing that would make me like everyone else, a wife, kids, and I couldn't go, couldn't follow her, I just sat and smoked and looked through the window.
For a while longer I sat in the coffee shop and then I called Rhonda again, who said Lippert was making his way back from Boston by train.
"Sit tight," Rhonda said. "He'll call you in a few minutes."
When Lippert called, I tried to tell him about Billy Farone, I tried to say, it's my cousin's kid, it's Billy, but he shut me up and said never the fuck mind about Brooklyn. We're done with it, he yelled, May Luca is dead, the killer is dead, the locals can wrap it up. The line crackled.
I tried to break into his stream of talk but the signal went dead. I called him back. He said I was too involved, too emotionally screwed up about the Russian thing in Brighton Beach and he didn't want me working out there. If I had a problem out there, I should call the locals. I knew he didn't hear me. I knew he didn't understand.
Forget it, he said, and anyhow, a little girl had disappeared from a fancy loft building over in Tribeca. He said, get the hell over there, he said. Use your nice manners, man, OK, just make nice with them because with this one media shit is going to rain down on us for real. The girl that disappeared from Tribeca belonged to a couple of lezzies, he said, you know, man, I mean one of them had the kid with somebody's sperm, turkey baster stuff, you know the deal and they're both rich and pretty famous and connected. Fashion. Architecture. Astronomy. Who knows? Who cares? Some kind of downtown shit and they're already calling in lawyers, squads of fat-ass lawyers, Jonnie Cochran style, Bruce Cutler, he said contemptuously. A phalanx of lawyers, he added, enjoying the word.
Listen, man, Lippert said, it's one thing some girl in Brooklyn gets murdered, it makes the police page in the Post. This one is rich and white, you know what I'm saying, also it's Tribeca so these people were downtown when the towers fell, so, like heroic. Right? I got the networks, the papers, every fucking media asshole is on me, and I want you there. It's probably a circus. He told me the street and the building.
"Get the fuck over there. OK? I need you. I need you to sweet-talk these babes, as much as anything. You know that world, right? You're the social babes' favorite detective, right?"
By now, I was yelling into the phone. Listen to me, Sonny, I yelled. LISTEN! But the signal was gone and I couldn't get him back.
23
The walls of the apartment on North Moore Street were red and lined with original movie posters from pre-war Germany; Dietrich, Billy Wilder, Von Stroheim gazed down at me while I negotiated with the security guard to let me in. Billy Wilder had an impish face; a magician's face; it said this guy can do amazing tricks. I seemed to remember that he had been a gigolo in Berlin in the 1920s. Except for Woody Allen's pictures, or maybe even counting Woody, Some Like It Hot was my favorite movie.
Grudgingly, the guard passed me on to another guy, who led me through the enormous loft to a collection of couches and chairs which contained three women, also perfectly arranged, like sculptures waiting for the viewing public.
One answered a phone that rang constantly; she spoke softly; she avoided touching the receiver with her fingernails, which, glistening with polish, were almost black. Another sat perfectly still; eyes shut, she wove her fingers together, apparently on hold until the next task.
The third woman, seated in front of a long low green glass table on short steel legs, snipped and plucked cards off the bouquets of flowers that were lined up in front of her. She read them, then added each card to a growing stack on the table and, a short fat gold fountain pen gripped between her thumb and her middle finger, made notes on a yellow legal pad.
When I introduced myself, she pushed her glasses up onto her head.
"Are you Olivia Blixen?" I said.
"Olivia is resting," she said. "She can't see anyone."
Dull snowy light flooded the apartment; there were skylights in the eighteen-foot ceilings, and the light and snow showed through them.
"What about Marianne Vallaeys?"
She corrected my pronunciation and said, "I'll see."
There was no invitation to sit, so I stood and looked at the flowers: tight bundles of pale roses, mauve, pink, yellow, in small round jars; translucent orchids potted in moss and lime green crackle vases; cream colored tulips, two feet long, that bent over the pots they were in, their fleshy heads touching the glass table. But who sent flowers to people whose kid had disappeared? Was there floral protocol for a kidnapping?
"Detective?"
I turned around.
"I'm Marianne Vallaeys." She held out her hand. The fingers were very long, the nails short and pale, the grip firm. She wore gray slacks and a gray cashmere sweater; I felt the softness of it as a sleeve grazed my hand.
She was small and self-contained and she gestured to a chocolate colored leather chair. I sat. She sat on the edge of its twin and leaned forward.
I shaded my eyes against the light and looked at her and I remembered. She was one of the women from the glass apartment on Perry Street. She had worn one of the floaty Japanese dresses and spent the evening kissing the other Jap dress a lot, marking territory.
"We've met," I said. "Saturday night. The party on Perry Street. Your party, I think."
"I don't remember. So many people."
"You're the mother?"
"I am one of Tatiana's mothers. Olivia is the other. If you mean which of us literally gave birth to Tati, it was Olivia."
"So she's the real mother. Who's the father?"
"It's not important," she said.
I said, "It would help me."
"Her father is a film director in Denmark. Copenhagen," she said. "He's a friend of ours. He came over, we brought him over, and he fathered Tatiana, but he's not involved in her upbringing."
I nodded towards the three other women. "So who are they?"
"Sally is our secretary," she said gesturing at the woman with the phone. "Dana looks after the house." She indicated the woman with the flowers. "I don't mean she's a maid, we have people who do the cleaning, of course, Dana takes care of the household, she organizes other staff, she orders food, that sort of thing."
The woman with the locked fingers had risen from her chair and was pacing up and down. Her head was bowed as if in prayer and she wore black jeans and a black sweater; a necklace made out of huge chunks of raw coral bobbed on her chest as she paced.
"She's my ex. Andrea Mariano. She's also the mother of my other child. My son, Sacha."
"I'm confused."<
br />
"Before I was with Olivia, I was with Andrea. We have a son. Andrea and I are civilized about it, we have shared custody. Sacha spends three and a half days with each of us. Obviously his other mother, my ex, would want to be here with us." She held her hands out, palms up, then clasped them together. "I can't imagine how this could happen. I researched everything, the building, our security people, the neighbors. I was very careful. I realized this kind of thing happened to people like us, and I took every precaution and now I think, what for? I think I'm cursed. I think I've missed something."
Her involvement with herself made her impenetrable. She barely mentioned the missing girl. Everything was turned back on her. She was her own most interesting subject.
"Where is your son?"
"Sacha is at school," she said. "It was too horrible for him to stay home. It's alright. He has a bodyguard who waits for him outside the school."
"How old is he?"
"Fourteen."
"Do you want to take me through what happened?"
"I've told the police the whole story, we have private investigators on it, we don't know what else to do."
The girl, Tatiana, had been going to a friend's for supper the night before. The friend lived in the building. It was arranged with her mother.
She would go by herself, Tati insisted. She was almost eleven and it was only four floors down, and she begged. The women, Vallaeys, Blixen, said no, absolutely not, but Tati cried and stamped her foot and said it was unfair, that she felt as if she lived in a prison. If she had a father, she'd said, he would understand. The kid pulled out all the stops. She worked on the women. And they let her go.
They watched her leave the apartment and get into the elevator. It was only four floors, after all. I'll be back after supper, Tati called. I'll be back. Come home by eight. Call us. We'll come get you, they said, but she made her lip tremble again and they said, OK, OK. They watched her get into the elevator, watched the door shut. The girl never came back.
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