One Fifth Avenue

by Кэндес Бушнелл

  Two police officers arrived within minutes, followed by EMS workers, who ripped open Billy’s robe and tried to shock him back to life. Billy’s body jumped several inches off the bed, and unable to bear it, Schiffer went into the living room. Eventually, a detective in a navy blue suit arrived. “Detective Sabatini,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Schiffer Diamond,” she said.

  “The actress,” he said, perking up.

  “That’s right.”

  “You found the body. Why?”

  “Billy was a good friend. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days.

  I came by to see if he was okay. Obviously, he wasn’t.”

  “Did you know he was under investigation?”

  “Billy?” she said in disbelief. “For what?”

  “Art theft,” the detective said.

  “That’s impossible,” Schiffer said, folding her arms.

  “It’s not only possible, but true. Did he have any enemies?”

  “Everyone loved him.”

  “Did he need money?”

  “I don’t know anything about his financial affairs. Billy didn’t talk about it. He was very ... discreet.”

  “So he knew things about people?”

  “He knew a lot of people.”

  “Anyone who might want him dead? Like Sandy Brewer?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “I thought you were good friends.”

  “We were,” Schiffer said. “But I hadn’t seen Billy in years. Not until I moved back to New York nine months ago.”

  “I’m going to need you to come to the station for questioning.”

  “I need to call my publicist first,” she said firmly. The reality of Billy’s death hadn’t hit her yet, but this was going to be a mess. She and Billy would likely end up on the front page of The New York Post tomorrow.

  Early the next morning, Paul Rice was trawling through the Internet when he came across the first item about Billy Litchfield’s death. He didn’t connect Billy to the Brewer scandal, so the news didn’t have a big impact.

  But then he saw several small pieces from The New York Times to The Boston Globe, stating that Billy Litchfield, fifty-four, a sometime journalist, art dealer, and society walker, had been discovered dead in his apartment the evening before. The coverage in the Daily News and the Post was much more extensive. On the covers of both newspapers were glamour shots of Schiffer Diamond, who had discovered the body, and a photograph of Billy in a tux. There were other photographs as well, mostly of Billy with various socialites and one of him arm in arm with Mrs. Louise Houghton. The police were investigating, suspecting foul play.

  Paul turned off his computer. He considered waking his wife and giving her the news, but realized she might start crying. Then he would be stuck in an emotional scene not of his own making and therefore of an unpredictable length. He decided to tell her later instead.

  Hurrying through the lobby, he spotted several photographers just outside the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Roberto.

  “Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body.”

  Billy Litchfield, Paul thought. “But why are they here? Outside One Fifth?” Roberto shrugged. “Never mind,” Paul barked, and knocked on Mindy’s door. She opened it a crack, trying to keep Skippy, who was barking and jumping on her leg, inside and away from Paul. For the moment, Paul had gained the upper hand in the building; Mindy had to agree to keep Skippy out of the lobby in the morning and evening when Paul would be passing through. “What is it now?” she said, glaring at him with hatred.

  “That,” Paul said, motioning to the paparazzi outside.

  Mindy came out without the dog, closing the door behind her. She was still in her cotton pajamas but had thrown on a chenille robe and flip-flops. “Roberto,” she said. “What is this?”

  “You know I can’t keep them away. The sidewalk is public property, and they’re entitled to be there.”

  “Call the police,” Paul said. “Have them arrested.”

  “Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body,” Roberto repeated.

  “Billy Litchfield,” Paul said.

  Mindy gasped. “Billy?”

  “I want something done about this,” Paul said, continuing his rant.

  “Those photographers are blocking my point of egress, and I can’t get to my office. I don’t care how famous someone is, they have no right to disturb the regular workings of a building. I want Schiffer Diamond out.

  And while we’re at it, we should remove Enid Merle. And Philip Oakland. And your husband. And you, too,” he said to Mindy.

  Mindy’s face turned red. Her head felt like a rotten tomato that was about to explode. “Why don’t you move?” she screamed. “Ever since you moved into this building, there’s been nothing but trouble. I’ve had it with you. If I get one more complaint from you or your wife about this building, I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if our maintenance goes up five thousand dollars a month, we will sue you and we will win. No one wants you here. I should have listened to Enid and broken up the apartment. It wouldn’t have made any difference — you’ve ruined the apartment with your stupid fish and your stupid computer equipment, and the only reason you’ve gotten away with it is because there aren’t any bylaws about goddamn fish.”

  Paul turned to Roberto. “Did you hear that?” he said. “She’s threatening me.” He snapped his fingers. “I want you to write down what happened. I want her on notice.”

  “I’m not involved,” Roberto said, backing away while gleefully noting that it wasn’t yet seven A.M., and already he had a bonanza of gossip. It was going to be a very interesting day.

  “Fuck you,” Mindy said, jutting her head forward in rage. Instead of reacting to this insult, Paul Rice merely stood there, shaking his head at her as if she were utterly pathetic. This further fueled her anger. “Get out!” she screamed. “You and your wife. Pack your bags and leave this building.” Taking a breath, she added, “Immediately!”

  “Mrs. Gooch,” Roberto said soothingly. “Maybe you should go back inside.”

  “I will,” Mindy said, pointing her finger at Paul. “And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. You won’t be allowed to come within fifty feet of me. Try going in and out of the building when you can’t go through the lobby.”

  “Go ahead,” Paul said with a taunting smile.“There’s nothing I’d like better. Then I can sue you personally. By the way, lawyers’ fees add up quickly, so you’d better plan on selling your apartment to cover them.” He would have continued, but Mindy went inside and slammed the door.

  “Nice,” Roberto said.

  Paul couldn’t tell if the doorman was kidding or genuinely on his side.

  Either way, it was irrelevant. If need be, he could have Roberto fired.

  Indeed, he could have all the doormen fired — and the super as well.

  Putting his hands over his face, he ran through the paparazzi and got into his car.

  Safely seated in the backseat of the Bentley, Paul took a deep breath and began texting instructions to his secretary. The confrontation with Mindy Gooch hadn’t disturbed him; having brilliantly arranged for Sandy’s arrest without implicating himself, Paul was feeling confident and in control. Sandy was back in the office, having been released on bail, but his concentration was shot. Eventually, Paul figured, there would be a trial, and Sandy might go to jail. When he did, the business would be all Paul’s, and this was only the beginning. The China deal was working brilliantly, and eventually, other countries might be forced to buy the algorithm as well. He could make a trillion dollars. It wasn’t so much these days. Most countries had deficits that size.

  As the car headed up Park Avenue to his midtown office, Paul checked the numbers of various stock markets around the world and received a Google alert. Both he and his wife had been mentioned in an item about Billy Litchfield on some society website. Paul wondered again if he should have woke
n his wife to tell her — given all the fuss about Billy’s death, he may have miscalculated the importance of the information. But it was too late to go back to the building and too early for a phone call. He decided to send her a text.

  He wrote: “Check the papers. Your friend Billy Litchfield is dead.” Out of habit, he quickly scanned the message, and then, deciding that it might be interpreted as too cold, he added, “Love, Paul.”

  In a fury, Mindy went to her computer and wrote, “I HATE THAT MAN. I HATE HIM. I WILL KILL HIM.” Then she remembered about Billy and, Googling his name, saw that his death was all over the papers. Billy was only fifty-four. She was overcome with shock, followed by grief, and despite reminding herself that for years, she hadn’t liked Billy so much, considering him a snob, she began sobbing. Mindy was one of those women who took pride in the fact that she almost never cried, partly because when she did, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her nose and eyes swelled up, and then her mouth opened and hung askew as clear snot dripped out of her nostrils.

  Mindy’s horrendous, high-pitched wailing woke Sam. His chest squeezed with fear, as he assumed his mother had somehow found out that he’d cut the cables outside the Rices’ apartment and was about to be arrested. The caper hadn’t yielded the hoped-for response, although Paul Rice had certainly been angry. For the past two weeks, Sam had been living in fear that he might get caught, but the police hadn’t really bothered to investigate, only questioning the doormen and Enid and a few other residents the next morning. But then they’d gone away and hadn’t returned. His mother insisted the culprit was the blogger Thayer Core, who was always writing terrible stories about One Fifth. But Sam guessed Enid suspected him. “Retribution is tricky, Sam,” she’d said one afternoon when he’d run into her on the sidewalk near the park. “The insult isn’t usually worth the risk of punishment. And eventually one learns that karma has a surprising way of taking care of these situations.

  All you have to do is sit back and watch.”

  Now, bracing himself for the inevitable, Sam entered his mother’s office. “What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head and opened her arms, pulling him awkwardly onto her lap. “A friend of ours died.”

  “Oh,” Sam said, relieved. “Who?”

  “Billy Litchfield. He knew Mrs. Houghton.”

  “The bald guy,” Sam said. “The one who was always around Annalisa Rice.”

  “That’s right,” Mindy said. Recalling the scene she’d just had with Paul in the lobby, she was furious again. I’m going to tell Annalisa Rice the news about Billy myself, Mindy thought. Kissing Sam and shooing him away, she went into the lobby filled with cruel determination.

  As she rode up in the elevator, she realized that since Paul knew about Billy’s death, Annalisa likely did as well. Nevertheless, Mindy wanted to see how she was taking the news — she hoped Annalisa felt horrible — and now, with Billy gone, maybe the Rices would leave New York and return to Washington, where they belonged. Or perhaps they would move farther away, to another country. If they left, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice with the apartment. This time, she and Enid and Philip would split it up, and with James making money at last, they might even be able to afford it.

  Maria opened the door. Mindy glared at her. These rich people, Mindy thought, shaking her head. They couldn’t even be bothered to open their own doors. “Is Mrs. Rice here?” she asked.

  Maria held her finger up to her lips. “She’s sleeping.”

  “Wake her up. I have something important to tell her.”

  “I don’t like to do that, ma’am.”

  “Do it!” Mindy snapped. “I’m the head of the board.”

  Maria backed away in fright, and while she scurried up the stairs, Mindy strolled into the apartment. It had changed drastically since she’d snooped around at Christmas, and no longer bore any resemblance to a hotel. Although Mindy knew nothing about decorating, being one of those people who became unaware of an environment after five minutes, even she could appreciate the beauty of what Annalisa had done. The floor in the second foyer was now lapis lazuli, and in the center was a round table inlaid with marble on which sat a huge spray of pink apple blossoms. For a moment, Mindy waited in the second foyer, but when she didn’t hear any noise from upstairs, she went into the living room.

  Here was a series of inviting couches and divans done in soft blue and yellow velvets, and an enormous silk rug with a swirly design in delicious oranges, pinks, creams, and blues.

  Annalisa Rice was certainly taking her time getting up, Mindy thought in annoyance, and sat down on a plush couch. It was stuffed with down, and Mindy sank into the cushions. Striped silk curtains hanging from the French windows pooled elegantly on the floor, and scattered around the room were little tables and more flower arrangements. Mindy sighed. If only she’d known James’s book would be a success, she scolded herself.

  Then she might have had this room for herself.

  Upstairs, Maria was knocking on Annalisa’s bedroom door. Annalisa rubbed her forehead, wishing Maria would go away, but the knocks were growing more insistent. Resigned, she got out of the four-poster bed.

  She’d been hoping to finally get some rest — since Sandy Brewer’s arrest, she’d hardly slept at all. Billy was sure to be arrested as well, but after her conversation with him, he hadn’t taken her calls. Annalisa had gone by his apartment at least five times, but he wouldn’t answer his buzzer. Even Connie wasn’t talking to her — or to anyone, for that matter. “I don’t know who my friends are anymore,” Connie had said. “Someone ratted us out.

  For all I know, it might have been you. Or Paul.”

  “Connie, don’t be ridiculous. Neither Paul nor I have any interest in hurting you or Sandy. Of course you’re scared. But I’m not your enemy.”

  Her entreaties made no difference, and Connie hung up, telling her not to bother to call again, as their lawyer had forbidden them to talk to anyone. Paul was the only one who seemed mysteriously unaffected — or rather, Annalisa corrected, positively affected. He’d become less brooding and secretive and had finally agreed to allow the apartment to be photographed for the cover of Architectural Digest. The only snag was that she’d need to get permission from the building for the photography equipment to be brought up in the service elevator.

  Putting on a pair of velvet slippers and a heavy silk robe, she opened her bedroom door. “There’s a lady downstairs,” Maria said, looking over her shoulder nervously.

  “Who?” Annalisa said.

  “That lady. From the building.”

  “Enid Merle?”

  “The other one. The mean one.”

  “Ah, Mindy Gooch.” What did Mindy want now? She probably had some fresh complaint about Paul. Which was nervy of her, considering Paul believed Sam had cut the wires. Annalisa herself was skeptical. “A thirteen-year-old boy getting the better of you, Paul?” she’d scoffed. “I don’t think so.” Now she said to Maria, “Make some coffee, please. And put out a few of those nice croissants.”

  “Yes, missus,” Maria said.

  Annalisa took her time brushing her teeth and carefully cleansing her face. She put on a flowing white blouse and a pair of navy blue slacks and slipped the yellow diamond ring from Paul onto her middle right finger.

  She went downstairs and was irritated to find Mindy sitting comfortably in the living room, examining a Victorian silver card case. “Hello,” Annalisa said formally. “Maria is serving coffee in the breakfast room. Come with me, please.”

  Mindy stood up, replacing the object on the side table. Well!, she thought, following Annalisa through the apartment. Annalisa had certainly become grand, but that was typical of people with money — eventually, they always believed they were better than everyone else. Motioning for Mindy to sit, Annalisa poured coffee into two china cups with enameled rims. “Sugar?” she asked. “Or are you a sugar-substitute girl?”

  “Sugar,” Mindy muttered, frowning. She picked up the tiny silver spoon
and shoveled several spoonfuls into her coffee. “You’ve done a lot of work in here. The apartment is beautiful,” she said reluctantly.

  “Thank you,” Annalisa said. “It’s going to be photographed for the cover of Architectural Digest. They’ll need to use the service elevator. I’ll let the super know the date beforehand.” She looked Mindy in the eye.

  “I’m assuming I can count on you not to make any trouble.”

  “I guess it’s fine,” Mindy said, unable to come up with a reasonable objection.

  Annalisa nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “Now, what can I do for you?” she asked.

  “So you haven’t heard,” Mindy said. She narrowed her eyes in anticipation of delivering her blow. “Billy Litchfield is dead.”

  Annalisa’s hand froze, but then she calmly took another sip of coffee.

  She dabbed her lips with a small linen napkin. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “What happened?”

  “No one knows. Schiffer Diamond found him dead in his apartment last night.” Mindy glanced at Annalisa, surprised by her lack of reaction.

  There were bluish shadows under her eyes, but the slate-gray irises were staring back coldly, almost challengingly, Mindy thought. “There are photographers outside,” she said. “It’s common knowledge that you and Billy were good friends. And you’re always in the society columns. So you might want to lie low for a few days.”

  “Thank you,” Annalisa said. She put her cup back onto the saucer.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “I guess not,” Mindy said, suddenly not having the nerve to bring up Paul’s attack on her that morning, or the fact that Mindy wanted them out of the building.

  “Well, then,” Annalisa said, standing up. The interview was clearly over, and Mindy was forced to stand as well. At the door, she turned back, once again wanting to bring up Paul and his behavior, but Annalisa’s face was impassive.

  “About Paul,” Mindy began.

  “Not today,” Annalisa said. “Nor any other day as well. Thank you for coming by.” And she firmly closed the door. Outside in the small hallway, Mindy heard her turn the lock.