JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home

by Peter Spiegelman

  “No other family?”

  “There’s the ex, if she counts. They still talk— about the kid, mostly— and she still pisses him off. And I think he has a brother or stepbrother who got himself in trouble a few years back— somewhere out in Jersey, I think. A reporter picked up on it, and it was five minutes of embarrassment for Greg.”

  “How about his friends?”

  “There’s some guy he goes to hear music with, up in the country someplace. I don’t know his name, though.” She thought some more and hesitated. “And … there was Sovitch.”

  “Linda Sovitch? From Market Minds?” Pratt nodded. “They’re friends?”

  “They used to be— when Greg was on the show all the time. I’m not sure how friendly they are now; he wasn’t happy when the guest spots dried up. But I know Greg had lunch with her— right before his last session with Tampon.”

  I finished my ginger ale and crunched on an ice cube and thought. “Did he ever talk about leaving?” I asked.

  “Leaving Pace? We talked about it a lot— especially lately— about going out on our own, setting up a research company. One of the things that drove him nuts about settling the lawsuits was he thought it would screw that up— screw up his reputation and his earning power. Screw them up more, I guess.”

  “You would do it— go into business with him?”

  She nodded vigorously. “For an equity stake? You bet I would. Nothing like that is coming my way at Pace.”

  “You’re not in line for Greg’s job if he walks?”

  Pratt made a derisive sound. “Are you kidding? I’m fine to keep the seat warm while Greg’s away, but when it comes time to fill his spot permanently, they’ll bring a name in from outside— assuming they want to keep a research department at all. If Greg leaves, I’ve got to make plans, one way or another.” She fiddled with the pile of slaw on her plate and looked at me. She wasn’t as light-headed now, and worry was coming back into her eyes. I didn’t have long.

  “Do you remember what he said in his voice mail— when he told you he was taking vacation?”

  She nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t a long message— something like I’m out of here for three weeks— starting now. Tell whoever you’re supposed to tell. Good luck.”

  “That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” She shook her head. “Any thoughts about his timing— about why he left when he did?”

  She pursed her lips and ran a hand absently through her hair. “I know he was pissed off about a lot of things— the lawsuits, all the bad press, Tampon— and he had been for a while. I guess it all just got to him that day. Tampon was the last straw.” Pratt worried her lower lip and checked and rechecked her watch. She glanced down the block, toward her apartment building.

  “Has anyone besides me come looking for Danes? Has anyone else called or come to see you?”

  “As far as visitors go, you’re it, but people call for Greg all the time. If it’s business they talk to me or one of the other analysts; otherwise we refer them to Nancy Mayhew.”

  “He ever do anything like this before— just take unscheduled vacation time?”

  Pratt nodded. “Two or three times, I guess, but then he called after a few days and told us when he’d be back.”

  “But he hasn’t called this time, and he hasn’t come back. Any idea why?”

  Pratt got quiet and looked away, at the street beyond my shoulder. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  Pratt’s eyes were large and dark behind her glasses. She looked at me for a long time and nodded.

  7

  It was a long run— two miles up, six miles around, and two miles back home— and I was right in the middle of it, at the north end of Central Park, on the steep climb up one side of Great Hill. It was five-fifteen, just past dawn, and the thin clouds that had brought showers overnight had begun to fray. The pavement was still wet and traffic was light: a few cabs, a few black cars, an aggressive peloton of racing bikes, and some other solitary runners, cocooned in thoughts and breath. I leaned into the hill and tried not to gasp. My own thoughts turned to Nina Sachs and her family.

  It had been close to ten last night when I’d walked from Clark Street down Old Fulton to Water Street. Brooklyn was cooler, and the breeze off the river had sent a chill through me. Lights were burning in Sachs’s loft and also at street level, in the I-2 Galeria de Arte, Brooklyn branch. I stood at the big glass door and looked inside.

  It was a huge space, as large as Sachs’s loft, with bleached wood floors and a wall of sidewalk-to-ceiling windows. The other walls were white, and a dense constellation of lights hung from the ceiling. Also hanging— from ceiling-mounted tracks— was a platoon of room dividers, movable walls of various widths presently arranged to divide the gallery into three exhibition bays. In the foreground, about ten yards inside the door, was a long mahogany counter, chest high and elaborately paneled.

  There were people in the gallery, a skinny young woman with bleached hair, camo pants, and a T-shirt that let her midriff peek through, and an even skinnier young man with shiny blue bellbottoms and a steel ball through his nose. They were sealing and hauling wooden crates with impressive speed and skill. There were two opened wine bottles on the long counter, and three glasses, and an ashtray with a smoldering cigarette. I heard music through the glass— something thudding and techno.

  Ines Icasa came through a door at the back of the gallery. Her hair was pulled back and she paused in mid-stride when she saw me. She was perfectly still for a moment, and then she moved again, walking to the counter, plucking her cigarette from the ashtray, and waving me in.

  I pushed open the heavy door. The music got louder and I felt the bass in my gut. I smelled tobacco and sawdust and wood polish. The skinny people looked up from their crates and eyed me speculatively. Ines called me over.

  “żQué tal? Just passing through the neighborhood, detective, or are you shopping for some art?” I smiled. Ines took a deep hit off her cigarette and reached for a wineglass. She poured some red wine, showed me the bottle, and raised her nice eyebrows. I shook my head. Ines frowned melodramatically and poured herself some more. I heard a noise from the end of the counter, and a foot, wearing something like a bowling shoe, slid into view. I walked over and looked down. It was Billy.

  He was sitting on the floor on a huge paisley pillow, his back against the end of the counter. There were earphones on his head that snaked off to a sleek MP3 player hooked to his belt, and there was a spiral notebook and a thick text—Trigonometry: An Introduction— open in his lap. He raised his head and looked at me, blankly at first and then with recognition, but without discernable interest. He had a pencil in his teeth and a bottle of Sprite at his side. He was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt again, but he’d swapped the Talking Heads lyric for a blowup of a Dr. Strange comic book cover. I raised a hand in greeting. Billy looked at me for a while and nodded minutely. I pointed at his shirt.

  “Master of the Mystic Arts,” I said. “One of my favorites— though he’s no Batman, of course.”

  Billy winced theatrically and let the pencil fall into his lap. “Batman’s a pussy,” he said softly, and turned again to his book.

  I laughed. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

  “He is working, detective, and he is very focused,” Ines said. She put a hand on my arm and led me back down the counter. “Are you sure I cannot get you something? Something stronger than wine, perhaps.” I shook my head. There was a moist sheen to the smooth skin of her face, and her big almond eyes were gleaming.

  “Trig’s advanced for a twelve-year-old, isn’t it?” I asked. “It seems to me I studied it in high school.”

  Ines smiled proudly and nodded. “Guillermo has always been many years advanced in maths. He takes most of his classes in the upper school.” She glanced at the skinny man and woman, who had gone back to sliding wooden cr
ates around. “We are packing up the last of an exhibition,” Ines said. “Iguacu, we called it— the work of five painters from the Paraná region of Brazil. They are very talented, and the show was well received.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “I will add you to our mailing list. You will never have to miss another.” She drank some more wine. Her glass was nearly empty.

  “Nina upstairs?” I asked.

  “She is expecting you,” Ines said.

  “Then I’d better not keep her waiting.” Ines nodded, and I started for the door. Halfway there I stopped and turned back to her. “You have any thoughts on where he might be?” Ines looked at me. She shook her head slowly and blew out a cloud of smoke.

  Upstairs, Nina Sachs was still working. I’d rung twice and waited several minutes for her to answer. She wore a paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, and she was barefoot. She had a smoke in one hand and a paintbrush in the other and her hazel eyes were jumpy, but she’d smiled when she opened the door.

  “Back here,” she said, and walked quickly across the loft to her studio. The place was a mess again, as if Ines had never cleaned it, and the smell was back. I followed Nina’s smoke trail to her easel. Her little stereo was pounding out The Subdudes.

  “Pull up a chair.” She pointed to the beat-up armchair in the corner. “I’m doing busywork now, so I can talk.” I turned the stereo down a notch and dragged the chair closer and sat. Nina paced back and forth before her canvas, and occasionally daubed at it, and sang along with The Subdudes as I spoke. She never interrupted and she never glanced in my direction. I told her about my trip to Pace-Loyette and my discussion with Irene Pratt, and about the long list of lawsuits and arbitration claims that Danes was involved in. When I was through, she stepped away from the easel, lit another cigarette, and leaned her hips against the utility sink.

  “So, basically, you haven’t found out anything.” She said it matter-of-factly.

  “I haven’t found out much. But we know that the people at Pace are worried—”

  “I knew that before,” Sachs interrupted.

  I nodded. “We know that someone else is looking for him—”

  “But not who it is.”

  “And we know that Irene Pratt is genuinely concerned about him. As far as I can tell, she’s one of the people closest to him, and she has no clue of where he went or why he hasn’t returned.”

  Nina laughed nastily. “What did you think of Pratt? She’s like a frustrated librarian, isn’t she? Or the nun who secretly lusts for the priest.”

  “You think she and Danes had a thing?”

  Nina shook her head and chuckled. “She’s not his type. She’s smart enough, but Greg likes a jagged little pill— he likes them edgy. Pratt’s too much of a schoolgirl. But she was interested, God only knows why. No accounting for taste, I guess.”

  “I guess not,” I said. “Though you must have thought he had something going for him— once upon a time.”

  She snorted. “Sure I did— back when I was fresh out of art school and fighting with my parents over the dump I was living in and the shithole where I waited tables. Back then I thought Greg was a hoot. He was smart and he knew it, and he had no time for people who weren’t. And unlike most of the wannabe bohemians I hung with back then, he actually liked what he was doing, he made good money doing it, and he planned to make a lot more. Plus, he was fucking funny, too. He’d say anything to anybody, and he didn’t give a damn who he pissed off. He was a real poke in the eye back then, and so was I. Maybe I still am.”

  Nina looked at her high ceiling and blew out a long cord of smoke.

  “’Course, all that gets old fast when you live with it every day and he decides he’s smarter than you are and you’re just there to fetch and carry while he’s out conquering the universe.” She ran a hand through her hair and crossed her arms and looked at me. A fleck of ash floated past her ear. “You really are a nosy bastard.”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, it’s part of what you’re paying for.”

  She rubbed her chin with the back of her hand and puffed on her cigarette. “Yeah, well … what else do I get? What’s next?”

  “Next Monday I get into his apartment. That should tell us something. Between now and then, I keep an eye out for whoever else might be looking for Danes, and I try to talk to Linda Sovitch.”

  “Isn’t that risky?” Sachs said. “Talking to her is kind of … public.”

  “Sure. She gets wind that he’s missing— and for how long— and it could be all over cable the same night. And there’s not much I can do to finesse it. But he did have lunch with her on the day he walked out of the office, and according to Pratt she was one of his few friends, so it’s hard to ignore her. Besides, some press coverage might not be a bad thing. If he’s near a TV, it might flush him out. And maybe he won’t find out who broke the story— or how.”

  Sachs looked skeptical. “He’d be so pissed—”

  “Assuming he’s in a position to be.” She squinted at me. “I want you to think about the police, Nina,” I said.

  “No fucking way. I told you, I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “Nina, his employers are worried, the closest thing to a friend of his that I’ve been able to find is worried, even I’m worried— and I’ve never met the guy. You should be worried too.”

  She looked at me and sucked on her cigarette and shook her head slowly. “Okay, okay, talk to Sovitch— but be discreet, for chrissakes. Give me some time to think about the cops.” I wasn’t sure how much discretion was possible, but I had nodded anyway and left.

  The grade eased as I neared the top of Great Hill, and I backed off my pace a little. My heart was pounding and my breathing was fast and shallow. I lengthened my stride and inhaled slowly and deeply. A well-muscled woman in Rollerblades, spandex, and a helmet like a shark fin passed me going in the opposite direction. She was pushing off smoothly, her face lit with anticipation of the downhill glide.

  By the time I reached the Loch and the 100th Street entrance, I no longer felt as if my heart would explode. The North Meadow was to my left. They were laying sod there, and I could smell the mulch and the wet earth and the grass. The sky was lighter now, and sunlight touched the crenellated line of buildings along Central Park West.

  I passed the 97th Street transverse and wondered if Irene Pratt was awake yet. She’d been only slightly wobbly when I’d dropped her at her door last night, but she’d been awash in an anxious silence. Today she would have a bad case of regrets.

  My heart rate was steady as I came to the Reservoir. I shook out my arms and breathed deeply, and my thoughts shifted again— this time to Jane.

  It was near midnight when I’d gotten back from Brooklyn, and my head had been full of Nina and Billy and Ines. There’d been lights in Jane’s windows, but I hadn’t gone to her apartment. I went to mine, instead, and poured a glass of water and stood in the kitchen. There was a travel magazine on the counter, open to an article about Venice. I turned the pages as I drank and looked at pictures of the Piazza San Marco and the Ponte di Rialto and the exquisite windows of exquisite shops near the Ponte dell’Accademia. I wondered what it would be like to go there with Jane, and walk with her on the bridges, and sit with her in the cafés into the wee hours. And then— from nowhere— I thought of my Proustian moment on Columbus Avenue, and my wondering turned to how long we might stay in Venice, and whether it was a runner’s town, and how I would get in my miles with all that water and all those crowds. A surge of annoyance rushed up my spine and I pushed the magazine away.

  I went into the living room and pulled a book from the shelf and sat with it in my lap and didn’t read. I listened for half an hour to Jane’s kickboxing workout— the thump-thump-whump of her beating crap out of the heavy bag that hangs in a corner of her loft— and when the pummeling stopped I listened to my telephone ring. I sat for a while after it went quiet, and then I peeled off my clothes and got into bed. I lay there, wat
ching the play of lights across the ceiling, listening to the rain, until about four-thirty, when I’d pulled on my running clothes.

  I still didn’t know why I hadn’t called her or answered her call, or why it had taken so long for my irritation to subside, or why there was a trace of fear in its wake. I didn’t know why I couldn’t sleep.

  I was covered in a skin of sweat, and my joints were loose and springy now. A lot of oxygen was bubbling around in my brain. The Museum of Natural History was on my right, bathed in yellow light. I shortened my stride and picked up the pace.

  It was nearly six when I got home, and nearly seven by the time I’d stretched and showered and shaved. I came out of the bedroom and there was a note under the front door. The stationery was heavy ivory-colored stock and the printing was angular and precise, like an architect’s. It was from Jane.

  Dinner? Call me.

  I put the card on the kitchen counter, by the tulips that were shedding their petals. I flicked the coffee machine on and spooned yogurt into a bowl with a sliced apple and some granola. And then I thought about how I might get in touch with Linda Sovitch.

  Sovitch was a star of sorts, the most recognizable of BNN’s talking heads and the host of its most successful show. As such, she would be attended by a cadre of PAs, flacks, and other assorted minders, wrapped around her like the skin of an onion and paid to keep riffraff like me at arm’s length. If I wanted to wait a few days, I could root around for some friend of a friend of a friend who might know one of Sovitch’s gatekeepers and might arrange a proper introduction. But I didn’t want to wait a few days. I wanted to talk to Sovitch soon, and that required something more direct. I called Tom Neary.

  “You know anybody who deals in celebrity cell numbers?” I asked.

  “And hello to you too. Somebody have a little too much coffee today?”

  “Somebody hasn’t had nearly enough. Surely a fancy outfit like Brill must have a few gray-market contacts for stuff like this.”