by Stuart Woods
“What’s your name?”
“Bob Cantor.”
“How long a lease you want?”
“Three years would be good.”
“You wait here; I’ll be right back.” The man left and came back ten minutes later. “Bacchetti says you’re okay; give me a check for a month’s rent and a security deposit, and the place is yours.”
Cantor wrote him a check.
“My name’s Jim O’Brian.” He stuck out his hand.
Cantor shook it. “Back to this guy Dryer; tell me about him.”
“He kept to himself, didn’t make any noise. I only saw him coming and going, or when he paid the rent. Always paid in cash, which was okay with me.”
“How long was he here?”
“Eight months.”
“Anybody room with him?”
“A long string of girls, one night at a time.”
“Any guys visiting him?”
“He was straight, believe me.”
“I mean friends staying over a few days, that sort of thing.”
“Not that I recall.”
“When he rented the place, did you take an application from him?”
“No, I don’t bother with written applications if the renter looks okay. I never got burned until now.”
“What did Dryer do for a living?”
“Said he was a filmmaker.”
“You ever see any evidence of that?”
“What kind of evidence?”
“Cameras, film equipment?”
“The only equipment Dryer had here was a computer, a copy machine, and a fax machine. Pretty neat computer, though – Pentium, fast laser printer, big monitor.”
“Did Dryer apply for his own phone service?”
“Nah, the phone’s on my bill. Shit! I forgot about the phone bill. That’s more money out of my pocket.”
“Did he make many long distance calls?”
“Yeah, quite a few.”
“Could I have a look at your phone bills? I’d like to know who he was calling.”
“I’ve got to go upstairs and get you a lease form; I’ll dig them out for you.”
“One more thing; did Dryer leave anything here?”
“Nothing but trash.”
“Has it been picked up yet?”
“No, it’ll still be out in the alley next to the building. There’s two plastic bags in the first can. It has a ‘B’ on it, for basement.”
“Thanks, Jim, I’ll take a look at that while you get the lease and the phone bills – all eight months, if you’ve got them.”
“I’ll be back in five minutes.”
Cantor followed him outside, walked into the alley, and found the garbage cans. There were three bags; one of them contained uninteresting kitchen garbage, the others a lot of paper and magazines. He pulled out the two bags of paper and walked back to the front of the building. O’Brian was coming down the front steps.
“Standard lease; I’ve already signed it,” he said, handing Cantor the document.
“What about subleasing?”
“No problem, if I approve the tenant.”
Cantor signed the lease, kept a copy, and handed it back. “Jim, you really ought to start taking a written application from your tenants; there are a lot of bad people out there.”
“You’re probably right; was Dryer one of them? Why are you checking up on him?”
“He did something impolite to a friend of a friend of mine. I was just going to talk to him and tell him not to do it again. Don’t worry about him; if he walked out on his lease, you won’t be seeing him again.”
O’Brian nodded and handed Cantor a manila envelope. “Here are the phone bills. The basement number is 1232.”
“Can I borrow these for a day?”
“Sure, but I need them back for my taxes.”
“I’ll get them back to you. Thanks, Jim; I’ll probably move in at the weekend, if that’s okay.”
“Fine with me. Glad to have you aboard.”
Cantor tucked the manila envelope under his arm, grabbed the two trash bags, and started looking for a cab.
Chapter 38
Stone was working at his desk when he heard the street door open, and a moment later Bob Cantor walked into his office carrying two garbage bags.
“Never say I didn’t give you anything,” Cantor said, dropping the two bags on the floor and depositing a manila envelope on Stone’s desk. “Dryer jumped his lease and moved out of the apartment last weekend.” He grinned. “Nice place; I rented it.”
“Did he leave anything in the apartment?” Stone asked.
Cantor pointed at the garbage bags. “If he did, it’s in there. His phone bills are in the envelope; the landlord says he made a lot of long distance calls.” He pulled up a chair.
Stone opened the envelope and shook out the phone bills.
“The phone was in the landlord’s name; last four digits are 1232.”
Stone began going through the bills. “L.A., L.A., L.A. Jesus, he lived there for what…?”
“Eight months.”
“And he never called anywhere but L.A.? Hard to believe.”
“Yeah.”
“And only one number,” Stone said. He turned to his computer, inserted a CD-ROM, and brought up his national telephone directory. He typed in the L.A. phone number and waited while the computer searched. “Here we go,” he said, “the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, in West Hollywood. When did you say that Dryer moved out?”
“Sometime between last Friday and Wednesday.”
“Look, he’s called this number virtually every day, sometimes three or four times a day.”
Stone picked up the phone and dialed the L.A. number.
“Santa Fe,” a man’s voice said.
“Hello,” Stone said, “this is Detective Cantor of the New York City Police Department.”
“Thanks a lot,” Cantor whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a regular apartment building there, or what?”
“Short-term furnished apartments, by the week or month.”
“I’m trying to reach someone who may have moved out last Wednesday or Thursday; could you check your records and tell me who that might be? I don’t have a name.”
“Don’t need a name,” the man said. The sound of pages turning came over the phone “Only one person has moved out in the past couple of weeks. We stay pretty full.”
“Who would that be?”
“A Mr. G. Gable.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like?”
“Early thirties, dirty blond hair, kinda long, fairly tall. Nice-looking guy.”
“Have you got a forwarding address?”
“Nope, nothing. You looking for this guy or something?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, if you find him, will you let me know? He owes a month’s rent. He left here by the back way, very early in the morning.”
“Has his place been cleaned out?”
“Oh, yeah; I rented it right away. We always have a waiting list.”
“Thanks very much; I appreciate your help.” He hung up and turned to Cantor. “He was using the name of G. Gable.”
“And we’re looking for G. Power. It’s gotta be our guy.”
“Right. Let’s see what his trash looks like.” Stone cleared off his desk and, a handful at a time, they began going through all the paper.
“Okay,” Cantor said, “we got a lot of very real trash – newspapers, magazines.”
“Vanity Fair, New York, People, Us. He seems to be celebrity-oriented.”
“Here’s a receipt from Saks, from the Armani shop,” Cantor said. “He paid cash. The landlord said he paid his rent in cash, too.”
“What’s the date of the receipt?”
“Let’s see, nearly a month ago.”
“He would have already picked it up after the alterations, then. Too bad.”
“More receipts; one from a limo service; here’s o
ne from the Four Seasons – Jesus, nearly three hundred bucks for dinner!”
“He’s living well, isn’t he? And he doesn’t seem to use credit cards or write checks for things that most people would. I wonder where he’s getting all this cash?”
“I don’t see any old bank statements in all this stuff,” Cantor said, dropping another double handful onto the desktop. “Look at this, another limo receipt, more clothes – Alan Flusser, this time, who’s that?”
“High-end tailor and ready-made clothes.”
“Here’s one from Ferragamo for six hundred and change.”
“That’s two pair of shoes.”
“Every one of them is marked cash. Oh, he told the landlord he was a filmmaker. Where does a filmmaker get this much cash? A bookie doesn’t have this much cash!”
Stone had a thought; he called Dino.
“Yeah, Bacchetti,” Dino said.
“It’s Stone.”
“Hey, you must be making Bob Cantor rich. I got a call from somebody who wanted a reference for renting an apartment up here somewhere.”
“Yeah, he’s moving up in the world. Listen, Dino, have you had any burglaries reported recently where just about the only thing taken was cash?”
“Burglaries? How the fuck would I know; I don’t mess with that kind of shit.”
“Yeah, but your guys do. Would you talk to somebody on the burglary detail and ask about it”
“I’ll have to get back to you.”
“Thanks, friend.” He hung up.
“What makes you think he’s doing burglaries?” Cantor asked.
“Just a hunch. Whoever burgled Arrington’s place took only cash; the guy who hit me over the head took cash – and my Rolex. Whoever capped Arnie Millman in the alley outside Dryer’s – pardon me, your apartment – took cash.”
“You think all of those are the same guy, then?”
“Maybe. Maybe two guys.”
“Two? One of ’em’s Power, then?”
“One of my clients was being followed by a guy who looked like Dryer, but she said wasn’t Dryer, judging from the photograph, and yet they fit the same description. I got a tip that a guy from L.A. who might be behind the DIRT thing fits the description. Now we’ve got Dryer repeatedly calling a guy in L.A. who fits the description, and who left L.A. recently. Maybe he’s in New York now.”
“Brothers?”
“Could be.”
The phone rang.
“It’s Dino. What do you know about these burglaries?”
“What burglaries, Dino?”
“The burglaries you called me about.”
“I called to ask you about burglaries. You find some?”
“Eight in the Nineteenth where only cash was taken, or cash and men’s’ jewelry, watches, that kind of stuff, all of them in high-end buildings. What do you know about this?”
“I’m just chasing a wild hunch. Find a copy of Vanity Fair, the new issue, and look for an ad for Spirit men’s cologne. There’s a guy’s picture in it; he’s been calling himself Jonathan Dryer. Get one of your burglary detail to show it to the eight victims and see if anybody recognizes him. If they do, I’d love to have a name and address.”
“Why do you think this guy’s connected to these burglaries?”
“Because I think he went into Arrington’s place and took cash, and he may have been the guy who did me, who also took cash. He’s an old boyfriend of Arrington’s.”
“Well, she must know where to find him.”
“He moved out and didn’t leave a forwarding address, and get this: He lived in the apartment next to the alley where Arnie Millman bought it. Interesting?”
“Very.”
“One of your guys must have interviewed him that night. When I went around there he said he’d been talking to the cops. Will you find out who it was and what notes he took?”
“I’ll do that.”
“And I’d like to hear about it.”
“You will.” Dino hung up.
“Bob, you call the cologne manufacturer, and see if you can track down Dryer through his modeling agency.”
“Okay, Stone; sounds like you’re putting something together here,” Cantor said.
“Maybe,” Stone said. “We’ll see.”
“I forget,” Cantor said, “did I mention that Dryer had a hotshot computer, a laser printer, and a fax machine? Maybe this is DIRT?”
“Maybe paydirt,” Stone said.
Chapter 39
The following morning, Stone and Arrington lay in his bed, watching the Today show and eating breakfast.
“I checked out Dryer,” Stone said. “He’s bolted from his apartment.”
“I hope he’s bolted from the planet,” Arrington said.
“Do you mind telling me a little more about him?” He was treading carefully; he knew this was a sensitive subject.
“What do you want to know?”
“How’d you meet him?”
“At somebody’s house in East Hampton, in August.”
“Whose house?”
“A photographer’s.”
“A friend of Dryer’s?”
“No, Jonathan didn’t know the host; he came with somebody else, I think. I can’t remember who.”
“How many times did you see him after that?”
“Two or three times a week, I guess; we both had a lot else going on.”
“What did Dryer have going on?”
“I assume he was hustling for some sort of living, although he always seemed to have money.”
“When you went out somewhere, how did Dryer pay?”
“On the occasions when I didn’t pay, he always paid in cash.”
“Never with a credit card or check?”
“No, always cash. I asked him once why he always carried so much cash, and he said he played poker a couple of times a week and always won.”
“Did he say who he played with?”
“No.”
“Did you ever know, specifically, what he was doing on any night when he wasn’t seeing you?”
She sipped her orange juice and shook her head. “Never; I always had the feeling that he had at least one other complete life going, maybe more than one.”
“Did you ever see him with other people, or always alone?”
“Usually just the two of us, but I took him to a few parties.”
“Did he know people at these parties?”
“Never; I was always introducing him to people I knew.”
“Were you ever in the apartment on East Ninety-first?”
“A couple of times. More often we were at my place.”
“Can you describe the furnishings of the apartment for me?”
She frowned. “I guess you’d say it was the typical single-guy place, but of a younger guy than Jonathan.”
“How so?”
“Well, the furnishings were inexpensive, off-the-shelf things, the sort of stuff you could pick up at the Door Store or Crate and Barrel. There were posters, but no pictures – original art, I mean. There was a cheap stereo and a small TV and a computer; he had sort of a home office. Nothing to speak of in the kitchen, just the bare minimum of plates and glasses and pots and pans. Nothing much ever in the fridge, except breakfast stuff and beer. Jonathan said he was thirty-four, and usually a guy of that age would have accumulated a few more permanent possessions.”
“What about clothes?”
“Lots of clothes; he was always shopping. Most of his stuff seemed quite new.”
“Jewelry?”
“Watches; he had three or four.”
“Do you remember what kind?”
“A couple of Rolexes and one or two dressier things. One from Tiffany’s, I remember.”
“Did you ever know him to leave town for any reason?”
“No, except for the time in East Hampton. He never said anything about traveling.”
“Did he ever tell you anything about where he was from, or his family?”
“I asked him once where he was from; he said nowhere, really, that his family moved around a lot. Something he said – I can’t remember exactly what – led me to believe that his father might have been in the military.”
“Which branch?”
“I don’t know; I’m not really sure of the military thing; it was just an impression. He also gave me the feeling that he and his family didn’t talk. Believe me, he’s the perfect candidate for black sheep.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“Not that he mentioned.”
“What about school or college?”
“He said he went to a small Eastern college; I asked him which one, but he said I would have never heard of it.”
“Do you know if he ever lived in other cities?”
“Washington. He said he was there for several years.”
“Did he say what he did there?”
“Something about selling some kind of equipment to the government. I don’t know what.”
“Did he have any hangouts in the city? Bars? Restaurants?”
“We always went to restaurants, and do you know, I don’t think we ever went to the same one twice. He liked to order elaborate meals, liked expensive wines.”
“Any bar hangouts?”
“Not when he was with me, but he gave you the impression of knowing every place in town. He liked to stay up very late, later than I did, anyway. I had the feeling that when he left me he usually went someplace else, but I never knew where.”
“When you were at his place did he ever get phone calls?”
“Often.”
“Did you ever know from who?”
“No, but most of them were probably women. He never called anybody by name on the phone. I only ever saw him make one phone call – it was long distance, but I don’t know to whom. Is this helping at all?”
“You’ve told me a lot, but nothing that would help me find him.”
“Now that he’s gone, why would you want to find him?”
“It’s possible that he might be involved in this DIRT business. Would that surprise you?”
“Nothing about Jonathan would surprise me. If you told me he was a Russian spy I wouldn’t be bowled over.”
“Anything else you can remember about him?”
“He wasn’t the kind to be very forthcoming; if anything, he always seemed to have something to hide.”
