Arnot’s office was the kind of room in which Joe D. had always pictured the robber barons of the last century making their unholy deals. It was panelled in some sort of rich, dark wood, with a wall of books opposite three oversized French doors that opened out onto a narrow balustrade. There was upholstered furniture at one end grouped before an immense fireplace that could accommodate a large roasting boar. A closed door off to the side probably led to a private bathroom or conference room. A massive wood desk was positioned opposite the fireplace. In between was a vast oriental rug in deep reds and blues.
Stuart Arnot struck Joe D. as surprisingly diminutive; he was almost lost in this rather grand setting. When he stood to greet Joe D., his waist failed to top the desk. He extended his arm across the desk to shake Joe D.’s hand, barely reaching it. He was bald on top, with dark brown hair on either side of his head. His pale complexion and round, rimless glasses lent him an air of studiousness. He was wearing a conservative tie, a white shirt, and suspenders. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. The top of his expansive desk, Joe D. noticed, was perfectly neat, with two piles of papers at one end and a leather blotter in the center on which a pen and a single piece of paper were resting.
“Won’t you have a seat,” Arnot said. Joe D. sat in one of the two chairs that faced Arnot’s desk. He expected Arnot to join him—the more important the executive, Joe D. had noticed, the more likely he was to join his guest on the visitor’s side of the desk—but he remained where he was. The distance between them felt enormous.
“I guess your secretary told you why I’m here.”
Arnot shook his head. “Terrible business,” he said gravely.
“Was George Samson a major contributor?”
“One of our leading contributors. And a close friend, I might add.” His voice was pinched and on the nasal side, as if each word was pronounced with some effort.
“The night he was killed, he attended a board meeting here, is that right?”
“Correct. We meet on the second Wednesday of each month in our boardroom, just down the hall. The meeting began at eight and ended about ten-thirty. As I told the police last week,” he added testily.
“You say you meet every month at the same time. So anyone could have found out that Samson was going to be here that night.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you notice anything strange about Samson that night?”
“Not a bit. After all, he didn’t know he was going to be hijacked.”
“Did the other board members leave with Samson?”
Arnot appeared to think about this for a few moments. His right hand readjusted the pen on his blotter, so that it lay perfectly perpendicular to him. “Actually, George was the last to leave. He and I had a few words after the meeting was officially over.”
“Words?”
“George Samson served as the president of our board. I merely wanted to brief him on some issues that I didn’t think appropriate for the entire board.”
“How much later did Samson leave?”
“Oh, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes after the others.”
That jibes with what the police reported, Joe D. thought. Samson’s time of death was between eleven and eleven-thirty, according to the autopsy.
“When did you leave the building that night?”
“About ten minutes after George. I brought some papers back to my office, retrieved my raincoat, then locked up.”
“You didn’t see Samson get into a cab?”
“No, he was long gone by then.”
“How did Samson usually get home from these meetings?”
“You mean, did he usually take a taxi? No, he usually had his driver waiting.”
“And you, how did you get home that night?”
“I walked to Central Park West and hailed a cab.”
“And you took it to your home?”
“That’s right.”
“Where do you live?”
“East Nineteenth Street.”
Gramercy Park, Joe D. noted. He decided this line of questioning wasn’t heading anywhere. “How does Samson’s death affect the Art Alliance?”
“Affect us financially?”
Joe D. nodded.
“We are well provided for in George Samson’s will. He established a very generous trust.”
“So you’ll be receiving more now from Samson than while he was alive?”
Arnot visibly flinched at this. “Somewhat more, perhaps. But I hope you’re not suggesting…”
“I understand Samson had a girlfriend,” Joe D. interrupted. “Any idea who it might be?”
Arnot looked incredulous. “I certainly wouldn’t know. Ours was a professional, not a personal, relationship. In any case, George didn’t seem the type to have an affair.”
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“He was devoted to his work, his business. There was nothing frivolous about George Samson.”
“Affairs aren’t necessarily frivolous,” Joe D. pointed out. Arnot smiled, unconvinced.
“Thanks for your time,” Joe D. said. There didn’t seem much point to prolonging this interview. Arnot was answering all of Joe D.’s questions, but he wasn’t volunteering anything. A sanctimonious air hung over the entire Alliance building, an air that was threatened by a visit by a private investigator. “Here’s my card, in case you think of anything else.”
Joe D. stood. Arnot remained seated, but he did manage to press a button on his telephone. A moment later Estelle Ferguson appeared.
“Please show Mr. DiGregorio the way out,” Arnot said.
Joe D. told her he could find his own way, but Estelle Ferguson insisted on accompanying him. Joe D. walked next to her this time and noticed that, while pretty, she looked extremely tense, her face almost rigid.
“You been working here long?” he asked her.
She answered without looking at him. “Three years. Mr. Arnot hired me when he joined the Alliance as director.”
“What did he do before that?”
“I’m not really sure. Something in the fashion industry, I think.”
“Fashion? I’d have thought they’d want an art expert.”
“Oh, no. His position is really more administrative. The other employees, they’re the art authorities.”
“Still, it seems a big leap, from clothing to art.”
“Mr. Samson recommended him for the job. I believe they met on Seventh Avenue.”
She made the garment district sound like a distant and only semi-inhabitable planet. “So Samson got Arnot the job.”
“He’s quite capable,” Estelle said a bit defensively.
“I’m sure he is. You said his work is administrative…”
“Well, mostly he focuses on fund-raising.”
They were at the entrance now. Joe D. opened the door.
“Mr. Arnot has done really well in the fund-raising area. Our endowment has tripled since he joined.”
She seemed reluctant to let Joe D. go.
“George Samson must have been a big part of that.”
“We have many other benefactors,” she said. Again, Joe D. detected a slightly defensive edge to her voice.
“But none as generous as Samson, am I right?”
She shrugged. “Thank you for visiting us,” she said with sudden brightness, as if Joe D. had stopped by for tea. He left the building and heard the door rattle as Estelle Ferguson closed it behind him.
Ten
Joe D. took a crosstown bus to the East Side and changed into running gear. Then he headed back towards Central Park, crisscrossing the streets and avenues to maintain his rhythm. At several corners he had to jog in place, intervals in which he felt like a complete asshole and wondered if he shouldn’t reconsider the health club. The feel of that body under his foot wouldn’t leave him, however. He’d jog until it did.
He reached Fifth Avenue in the Eighties, and realized he was just a few blocks from Mona Samson’s build
ing. The midday sun was surprisingly warm for late April, and he was depressingly winded for so short a run, so Joe D. decided to turn this into a business trip. He rested for a few minutes at the corner to regain his breath, then approached her building.
He recognized the doorman from his last visit. An Irishman, Joe guessed. His name tag confirmed this: M. Moran. Odd—you rarely saw any blacks as doormen in New York; didn’t matter what part of town you were in. Lots of Spanish, some Irish, few blacks.
Moran appeared to wear his uniform proudly, as if he were guarding a national landmark, perhaps Fort Knox. His hair was perfectly white, his eyes a pale blue, and his expression a mixture of suspicion and superiority.
“Are you here to see Mrs. Samson?” he greeted Joe D., showing off his doorman’s memory.
“Well, not exactly. Actually, I’d like a word with you.”
Two white eyebrows jerked upward.
“It’s not that I want to speak ill of the dead,” Joe D. began awkwardly.
“Mr. Samson was a fine gentleman,” Moran said with a defensive edge.
“And popular too, with the ladies,” Joe D. offered, then decided to cut the bullshit. “Look, what I’m getting at is this. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been looking into Samson’s death. And I’ve discovered that he had a girlfriend.”
Moran didn’t react to this.
“And the reason I wanted to speak to you was to see if you had any idea who this woman is.”
Moran spoke evenly. “You would hardly expect the man to bring his lady friends here, now would you?”
Joe D. had thought of this, but Samson and his wife had had several houses in addition to the apartment: One in the Hamptons, another in Palm Beach, a ski place in Colorado. Perhaps when Mona was away, George took a few risks. “Even when Mrs. Samson was away?”
“He never brought any lady friends here. Not that I’d tell you if he had.” Moran flashed him an indignant look.
“And there were no packages left for pickup?”
“Packages?”
“You know, addressed to women. You seem to have an excellent memory for names.”
Moran couldn’t suppress a grin. “Other than the occasional business envelope, no. Not that I’d tell you if there had been.”
“You’re a good man, Moran,” Joe D. said. He started to turn in the direction of the reservoir.
“When I like a person, and that person treats me fairly, you won’t find me speaking ill of them, dead or alive.”
Joe D. prepared himself for a discourse on the ethics of door watching.
“But when a person treats me badly, I find my professional ethics sorely tested.”
Joe D. turned. Moran gave him a half smile, unwilling to take the next step on his own. Joe D. took it for him. “And someone in this building treats you badly, right?”
Moran nodded almost imperceptibly.
Joe D. easily guessed who. “Is that person Mona Samson?”
Moran puckered his lips as if savoring what he was about to say. He took a step toward Joe D. and almost whispered, “Like dirt. Like worse than dirt. Never a thank-you; no matter that I stood out in the pouring rain for fifteen minutes trying to hail her a cab. She was that way with all the staff, still is. And cheap? Ten dollars I get at Christmas—even Mrs. McCrory on the eleventh floor gives more than that, and her husband’s in jail for securities fraud. Many’s the time I thought to tell Mr. Samson about…”
Moran stopped short and took a deep breath. More encouragement was needed.
“What would you have told him?”
A short hesitation, then: “About her gentleman friend.”
“Are you telling me she was having an affair?”
“What they did upstairs is none of my concern,” he said, glancing heavenward. “All I know is he visits almost every day in the afternoons. Wednesdays, when I do the evening shift, sometimes he comes then too, but only if Mr. Samson was out of town. Dougherty, who covers the graveyard shift after me, he says this fella spends the entire night. You draw your own conclusions.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Williams.”
“First name?”
“Never says. Just, ‘Mr. Williams to see Mrs. Samson.’”
Joe D. figured there had to be several pages of Williamses in the Manhattan phone book. And Mona Samson’s Mr. Williams might not even live in New York. For that matter, Williams might not be his real name.
“What does this guy look like?”
“Tall, thin. Handsome, I guess. Younger.” He spat the last word with relish.
“Younger than Mona Samson.”
“By a good ten years or more.” Moran couldn’t help smiling at this.
“He wouldn’t be up there now?”
Moran shook his head. “Neither is she.”
Joe D. thought for a moment, then took out a card. “I know this is asking a lot, but how would you like to call me next time this Williams fellow shows up?”
Moran appeared to mull this over. “I don’t know,” he said tentatively.
“I don’t have any money on me, but if you did call I’d be happy to compensate you for your trouble.”
“I don’t want your money,” Moran said angrily. “If you think the cops got it wrong, that Mr. Samson was killed by someone he knew, then I’m only too happy to help out. If Mrs. Samson and her boyfriend are involved, so much the better. Seeing her carted off in handcuffs will be reward enough.”
“If I’m not in, you’ll get my answering machine. I’ll call in for messages if I’m out.”
Moran hesitated, then took the card and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned away from Joe D., resuming his pose of dignified superiority. “Good day, then, Mr. DiGregorio,” he said flatly, as if the conversation hadn’t taken place.
Joe D. walked a block north, headed into the park, and started jogging when he hit the reservoir. He spent the first lap, a mile and a third, thinking about the possibility—the reality—that Mona Samson had a lover. It was hard to imagine her drumming up enthusiasm for something as strenuous as an affair. She was fleshless and brittle, and probably not much softer inside. It was harder still to conceive of someone who would want to have an affair with her. Still, there’s a lid for every pot, as his mother was fond of saying. And maybe it was money this Williams was after. For some people, money’s the strongest aphrodisiac.
If Mona had a lover, that gave her a second motive for killing Samson. Love and money, purest motives there are. Then again, if she had a lover, he had a motive too. Add another suspect to the list. Last name: Williams. First name: just Mr. at this point.
Central Park sparkled that afternoon. The magnolias and cherries were just past their bloom, their petals littering the jogging trail like ticker tape after a parade. The water in the reservoir looked cool and inviting through the chain link fence, and the skyscrapers and apartment houses that lined the park appeared neat and orderly, and seemed to hint at a world beyond that was equally tidy. This was all an illusion, but a satisfying one. Joe D. decided to do a second lap.
He thought about last night’s argument with Alison and wondered how they’d resolve it this time. They had barely spoken that morning as they went about their separate routines. Alison was cordial enough but distant; this was acceptable in the morning, when both were too distracted to deal with it. But later they would have to confront the issue, and Joe D. just didn’t see any way out around it.
He finished the second lap, for a total of almost three miles, plus the distance between his apartment and Mona Samson’s. Alison used to be an avid jogger until she opened Many Fetes. Now she only had time to jog on Sundays, and was often too tired to bother, while he was turning into the jogging enthusiast. Once he had pursued her, now he was the one holding back. Things had certainly changed in the past six months.
Eleven
When he got back to the apartment, the message light was blinking. In the old detective movies that Joe D. enjoyed th
e private eye always had a sassy, underpaid secretary sitting outside his office. He had an electronic box—cheaper, with fewer hassles, but not much in the way of companionship. Joe D. hoped the message was from Moran. It wasn’t. “Mr. DiGregorio? This is Estelle Ferguson, from the New York Art Alliance?”
Her voice, nervous, almost breathless, was just barely audible above background noise. Joe D. guessed she was at a pay phone.
“I’ve thought about your visit this morning.” A long pause full of roaring buses, car alarms, jackhammers, and honking horns. Joe D. was grateful for answering machines that accommodated unlimited messages. “There are a few things I think you should know. I didn’t want to say anything to you earlier, but now…” Another noisy hesitation. “You can call me at the Alliance, but if I don’t answer, please say you’re from…say you’re from the groomers. My dog’s having a shampoo today.” She managed a short giggle, gave her phone number, waited a few moments, and hung up.
Joe D. rewound the tape and called her back. “It’s the groomer.”
“I know who you are,” she said gravely.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?”
Vanishing Act Page 7
