The phone woke her. She checked the time, letting the machine answer. It was six thirty. "Lucy, hello, are you there? It's Nina Randolph. Lucy, your images are marvelous! We've definitely got a cover story here, and I intend also to use one of your Parkistan pics for the cover. I may have to photoshop Jesus and Mary out of there, but we'll cross that bridge etc. Meanwhile be sure and bill me for two more days, for the three shoots. Such authenticity! My God, that bar! What a hellhole, but so perfectly right for today’s no fun New York, don't you think? Well, ta ta for now love, just wanted to say thanks for getting it all done so quickly. It will make a great story. Let's talk soon." She hung up. Lucy got up, pleased with the message. Whatever else happened, she did her work, and did it well. The ice had melted, soaking the towel and one of her pillows. She headed into the bathroom to clean up and have another look at her wounded mug. The phone rang again as she was running her fingers delicately over her cheekbone and eyebrow, testing the extent of the damage.
Voicemail picked up. After the greeting came Rosa, frantic: "Lucy, my God, it's Rosa. Goddammit, are you there? I need to talk to you, Luce. Right now!"
"What, what is it, hon?" Lucy said, snatching up the phone.
"My car. Fuck, it was in the lot and everything. The boys that work there say they have no idea what happened. I left my riding boots in the car and went back to the lot to get them, and—Dammit, Lucy, it had to be those Russians. They must have gotten my license number."
"What happened?"
"What happened? They took a sledge hammer to it. Broke all the windows, smashed the doors, slashed the tires. Someone even took the time to slash up my riding boots, and then piss in them, the disgusting creeps. They cost almost three hundred bucks. The car's a fucking ruin, Lucy. Damn," she said, her voice scared and plaintive. "What if they come after me next?"
"Listen, Rosa, don't be frightened, but maybe you ought to go up to your parents' house for a couple of days. I think these guys are pretty dangerous."
"Pretty dangerous. Jesus, Lucy, they are crazy!"
"I know. I ran into a couple of them this afternoon."
"You what?"
"I went back to that building in the East Village to see if I could find out what was up. Met a couple of the guys you photographed, I guess."
"Jesus, are you insane? What are you trying to do to yourself, Lucy?!"
"I don't know. Anyways, I got out of there OK." She touched her swollen cheekbone.
"Come with me to Greenwich. We'll be safe up there, Lucy. At least for a couple of days."
"I got stuff to do. I'll talk to you later. Call me from your Mom's. And Rosa?"
"Yeah Luce?"
"Go now. Tonight. Please."
"I'm out of here. And Lucy, listen, I think, in fact I'm sure my insurance company will cover this, but you still owe me a tank of gas."
"And lunch. Call me tomorrow."
Lucy put more clothes on and her other sunglasses, the ones she hated, and took the dog for a walk. She looked both ways before leaving the building, and she stayed on the busy, brightly-lit streets in the heart of SoHo.
She stopped at a Korean deli and bought some brown rice and a couple of vegetables on the way home. Back in the loft, doors and windows secured, she put on rice, chopped the vegetables, set up the steamer, and turned on the tube to watch a little national and international bad news, take her mind off her own. The phone rang again. This time she answered before the machine. "Yeah?"
"Hello, Miss Lucy Ripken please." The voice sounded ancient, distant, and very strangely accented.
"Speaking."
"Hello, Miss, ah, Ripken." He paused, whoever he was. "Ah, my name is Gregorio Ling Wah, I am friend of Patricia Moody's." Oh My God, the Chinese Brazilian! She waited. "I was so very, very sad when Patricia has died."
"So was I, Mr. Wah. She was my friend."
"Yes, I am very aware of this. I will not waste time. I must explain to you—were you aware of the relationship I had with Miss Moody?"
"Ah, not exactly, but generally, yes."
"That is good. I do not have to explain myself. Not long ago I asked Patricia to recommend someone who might be interested in me—in pursuing a relationship such as the one I have with her. In case something happened to her, or—well, things change. Things always change. I am old enough to understand that. And don't mistake me—I cared for her, and I am sad that she died. But life goes on. And you are the person I would like to have take her place."
"Take her place? As—"
"My New York friend. I am in need of a companion—a friend when I visit there. Someone to—"
"I'm several years older than her, Mr. Ling, and I—"
"She sent me a photograph, Miss Lucy. When one is as old as I, it is not difficult for a woman to be young in my eyes. I am very pleased to ask you if you would be interested in getting to know me better." Lucy felt a hard rush of temptation: Ten thousand a month, no money problems, could write a book, take pictures for art's sake, get new clothes, get righteous like Danny Horn. She got up and walked into the bathroom, portable phone in hand. "There is also the matter of the apartment. I am sure I can arrange to have it transferred into your name if you are interested."
"What exactly do you want from me?" Lucy asked. She was watching herself in the mirror, to see if a concubine looked back. A whore. That bruised mug didn't look too sexy.
"I am coming to New York in January," he said. "I would want to stay with you at the apartment. As I said I am not one to waste time: if you are interested I will take the appropriate steps immediately. You will receive ten thousand dollars on the first of each month, and title to the apartment. I will send you the money beginning on the first of next month, and take care of the transfer of the apartment as soon as we have met and decided that we are able to get along. That will be in January. Now, if you will just give me your address and bank account information I will take care of the financial matters."
"I can't do it, Mr. Wing. I'm sorry, but I just can't do it. Not my line of work. But you know what? I have someone in mind who will. She is much more suitable, I think, for what you need. I appreciate that you have honored me with this offer, but no thank you. If you are willing to wait, and to give me a phone number where you can be reached, I will have my friend get in touch with you as soon as possible. She can send you a photograph as well." Fuck off, you dirty old man, think you can buy me with a phone call. Ten grand a month and an uptown pad. Ha!
He didn't even hesitate. He was game, and so, on hanging up, Lucy called Lucette and asked for Loretta Sandusky. She came on. "Hi, Loretta, it's Lucy Ripken."
"Lucy, hi. How ya doin'? Still on the case after Pretty Boy?"
"Um, yeah, but that's not why I'm calling exactly."
"What's up?"
"Did Patty ever talk to you about her friend in Brazil?"
"The old fart who gave her all that dough and the apartment? Yeah! What a great deal!"
"I guess. Well, anyway, this is kind of strange, but he just called me up and apparently Patty had sent him a letter and told him that if anything happened to her I should, you know, take her place."
"You? Really? That's weird—not that you aren't a pretty girl, Lucy, don't get me wrong, but—"
"Don't worry, I know, I know. You'd think he'd want someone younger and sexier. To tell the truth, I think Patty was trying to test me, or tempt me, or something, I don't know. Anyways, I called him and told him I couldn't do it, but then I told him about you. Are you interested?"
"Are you kidding?! Hell yes. What, he comes here once or twice a year for three days, calls once a month. Is he throwing in the apartment too?"
"That and ten thousand dollars a month."
"Give me the number, please. I'll call him right now. Jesus, Lucy, if this works out I'll steal you the ruby of your choice, on my way out of this dump."
"Oh, that won't be necessary, Loretta. Just call me back and let me know what happens. That's all I ask." She gave Loretta the Brazilian’s
number, and signed off.
She ate a few bites of rice and vegetables, and then laid in bed with her aching eye, thinking about how easy life would have been with all that free money, and a rent-free apartment. She fell asleep with a clear conscience, which was better, she knew in the depths of her heart, than any amount of money accepted for a sex and companionship deal with a dirty old man.
CHAPTER TEN
A DESPERATE DAME
Lucy called the cop when she woke at seven. He said, "Sanderson."
"Hey," she said, trying to start out upbeat. "I didn't expect to hear your voice. It's Lucy. Lucy Ripken. You know, the..."
"The late Patricia Moody's curious friend. What can I do for you?"
"Your partner said you'd get back to me ASAP on that photograph I gave him. You never called. What's the deal?"
"The picture of the model and the man you thought was with Miss Moody that night?" He paused briefly. "I'm afraid it was lost."
"What?" she said, incredulous. "You lost the photograph? Get serious, Sanderson."
"I am serious. Riles says he gave it to the computer guy, told him to put a rush on it, and then—I don't know. He didn't even get a chance to enter it into the system. So—"
"So let me guess where we stand now: you have no information for me, you're doing an internal investigation to find out what happened, but meanwhile, there's nothing you can do."
"Something like that."
"My only question is why? Why are you doing this? You guys are too much. I guess you figure since I have nowhere to go, why not just run amok over me. Who's gonna stop you, the ACLU? Patty's parents? So where's the brilliant Mr. Riles at the moment?"
"Look, I can't do anything about the missing photograph, but I can give you something you might find even more interesting."
"What's that?"
"Keep this to yourself because it hasn't made the news yet. An uptown astrologer who calls himself Nova was shot twice in the stomach late last night. He died in surgery an hour ago. His Russian wife is incoherent with shock, but she did say an intruder did the shooting—a guy wearing a stocking cap over his face. Shot him in his bed. This is not such an unusual thing in New York, but—as it turns out, this Nova used to be a therapist who went by the name of Dr. Lucien Schwartzhill. About three years ago his practice went down the tubes when several of his patients claimed he had attempted to molest them. So as you can imagine, even though we haven't made any arrests yet, we've got some hot prospects. Schwartzhill beat the case on a technicality but there was a lot of negative publicity, so he disappeared for about ten months, then resurfaced calling himself Nova and started reading charts. The guy had his hustle down, I tell you. But you know what, Lucy? We found a photograph of Patricia Moody, wearing her favorite outfit—rope and a blindfold—in one of his file cabinets this morning."
"She was a client of his from what I hear. There were pictures around. So?"
"So there was a vase of tulips on her nightstand in the photo. The same vase of tulips was in the same place on that nightstand when her housekeeper found her dead. I know because we dusted the vase for prints. She'd bought them earlier that day—confirmed by the guy that sold them to her. Nova was there that night. We even managed to pick up one of his prints off the inside of her front door. In spite of that call she made to you, we think maybe you've been barking up the wrong tree with regards to Patricia Moody. Nova is the man you should have been looking for—and now he's dead." Lucy didn't say anything. "You might as well stop wasting your time, Lucy Ripken. For better or worse, the guilty party—guilty of screwing around, and possibly manslaughter, although I'm not sure it would have gone to trial—got it in the gut. End of story. You didn't hear any of this from me." He hung up.
Lucy put the phone down, said, "Jesu Cristo," out loud, then fell silent. No, she wasn't wrong. The cops were wrong, not surprisingly. Nova didn't kill her. He just "fucked the bitch," as he so elegantly put it. He wouldn't have talked like that had he killed her. He was arrogant, but not stupid. As for the evidence: the prints could have been there for days, or weeks; but the photograph in his cabinet—that was the strange thing here. The missing link, perhaps.
She picked up the phone and called the Moodys in New Jersey. "Hello." Mr. Moody, sounding rather bright-eyed for seven-thirty a.m.
"Hello, it's Lucy Ripken returning your call from the other day. Sorry it's so early but I wanted to check in with you."
"Lucy. Hello, yes, thanks for calling back."
How to phrase this? "So I heard the news. I guess you must be feeling—as if justice has been served—by what happened to Nova."
"The shooting? Well, it's not the worst thing that could have happened, in my opinion."
"Mr. Moody, Nova died an hour ago, and you just made me an after-the-fact accomplice to murder. What do you think I should do?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I lied. Nova's death hasn't been on the news yet. There's only one way you could know about it."
"I don't know what you are implying, Lucy. I've made some friends in the department since this all happened. They knew I was interested in this man. So I got a call early this morning."
"Who made that call?"
"I'm not at liberty to say. Look, we're wasting time. Have you any new information on Patricia's killer?"
This guy was smooth, and tougher than she expected. Who did the shooting for him? Or could he be telling the truth? "I'm getting closer, but—"
"Call back when you have more news." He hung up. Damn! She considered calling the cops to hint they might pick up a trail in Montclair, New Jersey, but decided against it. Better to keep everybody in play for now. Besides, at the moment Mr. Moody paid her rent.
She dressed, smeared make-up over her bruised cheek, put on her sunglasses, and walked Claud, mulling her next move. She took the dog home and went back out, headed uptown on the eastside train to sniff around Nova's building one more time. It was her best bet. She certainly had no desire to chase after the Russians at the moment.
Turning the corner onto Nova's block, she spotted Katya hurrying towards her. Katya wore sunglasses, a black, wide-brimmed hat, and a long, sweeping black cape which contrasted dramatically with her flowing blond hair. In spite of the chic mourning garb, she looked not elegant but desperate, rushing along. Lucy melted into the scenery as she passed, then fell in behind her. She got a cab and Lucy got the next one, for yet another run downtown.
This time the destination was Second Avenue and Second Street. Pleased to be at a reasonably safe distance from Leonid and his Russian charms, Lucy paid her cabbie and jumped out half a block behind Katya. Instantly, Lucy saw they had arrived on a dope block. Scanning for cops and customers, suggestively loitering or caroming like manic pinballs back and forth across the street between the legitimate retail shops and the fancy new restaurants that defined the upscaling of the neighborhood, dope dealers made available their assorted wares. Lucy knew the scene: these street scufflers sold to SoHo types lured east by the aura of romantically destructive drugs; and to bad boys from Jersey and Long Island who'd cruised in for Manhattan high jinks. This was the low end of the billion dollar drug trade, where the ruined lives went uncounted.
Strolling along among the locals, a fish out of water in her fancy black threads, Katya appeared to be searching for a fix of the fine vitamin mix her husband normally cooked up for her. Seemingly her connections had come undone—why here and not Eighth Street?—and she had skulked down lower to hunt for street dope. This was bad business at the very least. Lucy watched the predators stalking the caped blond in her shades and big black hat. Radiating hungry vulnerability, Katya was obviously unpracticed at copping on the street, and the whole block could sense it. Within five minutes Lucy had picked out half-a-dozen people homing in on her. It was merely a matter of who would strike first. Here she came now: a short, thick, dark-haired woman in a peacoat. In another life, she would have sold potatoes from a cart. She approached Katya, they talked brief
ly, then Katya followed her around the corner. Lucy hurried after them, rounding the corner in time to see them disappear into a building halfway up the block. Lucy crossed the street and waited, leaning against a lamp post to keep her profile low. Adjacent to a dive bar a couple of doors up from where Katya had gone in, a French restaurant had opened.
Five minutes passed. Lucy fended off two dealers—a woman selling heroin and a man offering acid, coke, and reefer—and petted a stray dog who'd stopped to sniff Claud, lingering fragrantly on her jeans. Then she heard a muffled scream. Suppressing an urge to charge into the building, she waited. A moment later, Katya burst out onto the sidewalk, shouting, "Goddammit, I want my money back, I want my drugs. She took my money and went away. She was going to get my stuff!" she stomped back and forth in front of the building, cursing and shouting, frantically looking for someone to solve her unsolvable problem. Up and down the block, the residents and dealers and shopkeepers watched, faces impassive. "I don't haf any more money," she shouted, her Russian accent growing heavier. "She haf taken my only money." She broke down and began sobbing. Her shoulders shook as she headed north, walking aimlessly. She'd been ripped off in a street deal. Tough break, hon.
Lucy crossed the street and followed her. After they'd moved into the next block, she came up behind her and said, "Katya, is that you?"
Still sniffling in her shades, Katya whirled. "What do you—who are you?" She took her sunglasses off. Her eyes were red and swollen. "What do you want?"
"Lucy Ripken. I met you at your husband's office the other day."
"Can you lend me some dollars?" she said. "I need to get somethink."
"What is that, Katya?"
"Why are you here? I don't know anyone that comes around here."
Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5) Page 15
