“Is this the woman?” he said.
“Oh yeah. That’s her.”
“You have no doubt.”
“I’ll remember that one a long time.”
“She’s a fashion model named Camilla Santee. Residents of the building say she used to live there a few years ago—in Molly Wickham’s apartment.”
“I only been there a few months.”
“The owner of Miss Wickham’s apartment is listed as C.C. Delasante. Could this be the same woman?”
“I don’t know any Delasante.”
Lanham took the picture back. Mohai seemed reluctant to give it up. Next Lanham showed him a glossy agency photo of Belinda St. Johns.
“Have you ever seen this woman before?”
Mohai studied the picture appreciatively. “Oh yeah. She’s been in at least a couple of times.”
“To see Molly Wickham?”
“She came in with Wickham. A couple times. Real late at night. I think once she stayed all night. There were some other people, too. You know, fruitcakes. I could smell one guy all the way across the foyer. Some little queen.”
“Was there ever a tall man, with glasses?”
“Oh yeah. But he’d come by himself. I guess he was the number-one boyfriend. At first, though, I thought he was a coke dealer.”
“Coke?”
“We have a few users in the building. Especially Wickham. Some nights, she didn’t need the elevator. You know what I mean? And this guy had a big white limo, a stretch. Not the kind of car you see around here too much. These are mostly old-money people, you know? Not many flashy cars. Only two Rolls-Royces.”
“You said it was white?”
“White, or light gray. Something like that.”
“This tall man with glasses, he’s not the one who hit you?”
“Oh no. He looked like the kind of guy who’d scream if you hit him. Kinda pudgy, and soft. And he was usually half in the bag.”
Lanham returned the pictures to his briefcase, clicking the latches shut.
“Thanks for your help,” Lanham said, rising. “I hope you feel better.”
“Hey, am I going to get some protection?”
“Protection?”
“In case this guy comes back. I seen his face.”
“I’ll ask my superiors,” Lanham said, knowing very well what Taranto would say to a request like that.
Belinda St. Johns was working a show in the garment district. It had taken A.C. very little time to track her down, once he had gotten the number of her modeling agency. He had called her booker and simply posed as a policeman wanting to talk to her more about the Wickham murder. Such subterfuge was now a sin in the newspaper business, but he couldn’t think of any other way to do it. He was in a hurry.
St. Johns’s assignment was a lingerie show—mostly peignoirs, nightgowns, and lounging pajamas—in the showroom of a design house on the fifth floor of a rattletrap building between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. His business card from the Globe got him in without difficulty, but all the seats were taken—folding chairs arranged in an oval about the large room—so he had to stand in a corner.
There were only six models—four girls and two boys—all barefoot. Belinda St. Johns had the best figure, and by far the best legs. Intent on her work, she paid little attention to the spectators and appeared not to notice him at all. She was as haughty as before, supremely elegant, a queen among commoners, her beauty almost as perfect as Camilla’s. She gave a little skip and tossed her head as she returned to the dressing room.
The two boys, wearing nearly sheer black silk lounging suits that ended at the knee, concluded the show. Designers were now bringing out lines of male clothing strictly for the use of homosexuals.
A.C. trailed the small mob that crowded around the door of the building’s lone, ramshackle elevator, lingering at the rear. Then, at an unobtrusive moment, he made his way back through the showroom to the dressing area.
It was also crowded. There were many men there, most of them seemingly involved with the show. One of the girl models was wearing only panties, unmindful of the nakedness of her small breasts. Two others had changed from the designer’s underwear into their own. Belinda, in stocking feet, was hastily putting on her street clothes. A.C. started toward her.
“Sir?” said a young man with dirty hair nearly as long as Belinda’s, rising to block A.C.’s progress. “Where are you going?”
“I have to talk to Miss St. Johns. It’s important.”
“The girls are still changing.” It came out a hiss.
“That’s all right,” said A.C., pushing past him. “I’m only going to talk to her.”
He caught Belinda by surprise. She didn’t seem to recognize him.
“Miss St. Johns, I’m A.C. James. From the Globe. We were at the police station together.”
“I remember you. Yeah, you were with Vanessa Meyers. Is she here?”
“No. Miss St. Johns, I need to talk to you, about the Wickham story. I’m writing a column. May I buy you a cup of coffee, or a drink or something?”
She eyed him coldly. “I don’t want to be in any story. Not about that.”
“I don’t plan to put you in a story. I just need your help in answering some questions. It’s about something I just learned, something the police don’t know about.”
“Like what?”
He glanced around. The bare-breasted model was putting on a blouse—without brassiere.
“Please, Miss St. Johns. If we could go someplace.”
“Are you trying to pick me up?”
“No. Please. I just don’t want to talk with all these people around.”
“What’s this about?” She was very hostile now. He’d have to tell her something.
“It’s about a party at Molly’s place, a party you attended.”
There was a flicker of fear in her eyes, then the toughness returned.
“Fuck off.”
“Please, Miss St. Johns.”
“Fuck off,” she said more loudly. “Beat it.”
She began buttoning up her dress, getting the holes wrong in her haste. The long-haired young man returned with a very large woman wearing a black and orange print smock.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” the woman said.
“Leave. Now,” said the young man, taking A.C.’s arm.
A.C. pulled away, but left them, clumsily tripping over the leg of one of the folding chairs as he crossed the showroom. He’d have to find another way to get to St. Johns. Perhaps Vanessa could help.
There were still people waiting for the elevator, and he was compelled to wait with them. The long-haired young man stationed himself at the doorway to make certain A.C. went away.
It took two more trips of the creaky elevator before there was room for him to wedge in. When they reached the street level, he bolted for the outdoors, taking in a large breath of the street air as though he had just emerged from some oppressive, dark mine shaft.
Before he could move further, he found himself confronted by Belinda St. Johns. In stockings, but lacking shoes, she had obviously taken some back set of stairs. She pulled him a few feet down the sidewalk and then pushed him into a narrow alleyway. Her beautiful face, contorted into ugliness, came almost into his.
“What do you know about a party at Molly’s?” she said.
She’d left him no choice. He’d have no other opportunity.
“I know that you were there. So were Molly and her friend Pierre Delasante and a male model named Jimmy Woody. You were all in bed together.”
“Where do you get this bullshit?”
“A videotape was made. Someone’s blackmailing you with it.”
“You’re going to put this crap in your newspaper?”
“No. I just want to know who has the tape. I won’t involve you at all. I just want to find out who it is. We think that person is involved in Molly’s killing.”
She shoved him. “Listen up, you asshole! You want me to ge
t my brains blown out like Molly? Are you fucking crazy?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Listen to me. If you say a fucking word to anyone about this, if you even dream about putting something in that shitty paper of yours, I’ll see you get hurt real bad. I’ll get your knees broke. I’ll get your fucking balls cut off. This isn’t bullshit! I’ll do it!”
“Miss St. Johns—”
“I may do it anyway. You came barging into the dressing room when I half had my tits hanging out. I got witnesses. If someone I know were to find out about that, your face would be looking like your ass. It looks like someone gave it a workover already, but that isn’t ant shit compared to what can happen to you. Capish? Asshole?”
“I mean you no harm.”
“You fucking better not!” She stepped back, glancing behind her to make certain no one had been witness to her tirade. “You stay away from me. Understand? You forget this!”
She was gone. He looked at the cans of refuse around him. He felt as much a valiant knight as the hissing young man upstairs.
Taranto was not amused to find such a wealth of pornography in the squad room—or to find Lanham so absorbed by it.
“Come on, Ray,” he said, his voice strained and gritty. “Every cop in the city is out looking for Bad Bobby and you’re sitting here looking at dirty books. What gives?”
Lanham smiled indulgently, the wise old sage revealing a small part of the great truth he was pondering. “I’m looking for pictures of Molly Wickham. The fairy godmother who took her away from Darcy and the Deuce was a photographer. If I find him, it will help the case.”
“Well, get this shit out of here. What if some newsie sees it? Hell, what if the mayor decides to come by?”
“If the mayor was going to come by, there’d be advance men all over the place six hours ahead of time.”
“Yeah, well, clean this up before they do. Who paid for it? I hope you don’t think this is coming out of department funds?”
“It didn’t cost a thing. It was confiscated—except for some magazines I bought at the Waldorf.”
“Confiscated? This doesn’t look illegal. Illegal is little kids and corpses. Did you get a court order?”
“Not exactly.”
“Shit.” He slammed his door.
Lanham exhaled sharply, and pushed his chair back from his desk. This really was a stupid idea. He was hoping to find Peter Gorky’s name among the skin mag photo credits. He’d save a lot of time if he’d just go out and find Gorky.
He tracked the photographer down on location. He was doing a commercial shoot at the little mall in front of the GM Building, directly across Fifth Avenue from the Plaza. The sequence being filmed was of a model coming out of the building, pirouetting, and opening her coat to reveal some lacy underwear.
Lanham hung back with the onlookers for a time, letting Gorky shoot the sequence twice. Then, when the model paused to have an attendant work on her hair, Lanham moved in, touching Gorky on the shoulder. The photographer turned as though to snap at him, then saw who it was, and became quite polite.
“Hiya, Detective. Out for a stroll?”
“Here to see you. Can you spare me a minute?”
Pained but resigned, Gorky glanced about at his crew and the surrounding spectators, then nodded. “Everybody take a break,” he said to a subordinate, a bearded young man in a denim jacket.
“That bench okay?” Lanham said.
“Sure.”
“Molly Wickham was murdered right over there, across the street.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And here you are.”
“Yeah. Great day for a shoot.”
They sat down, Lanham turning slightly toward the photographer, Gorky sitting hunched forward, his elbows on his knees.
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“You told me you didn’t take that picture I found in Molly’s apartment.”
Gorky stared at the pavement. His hands were huge.
“I figure that you did,” Lanham said. He added a lie. “It’s very artistic. It’s like some of your other work that I’ve seen.”
“Okay. I took the picture. I didn’t tell you because, what the hell, what would be the point? It didn’t have anything to do with Molly’s getting killed.”
“I don’t know what had to do with Molly Wickham’s getting killed. I’d like to. That’s why I’m here.”
“I took the picture, all right? A couple of pictures. Polaroids. I left them with Molly.”
“And the videotape? We found a piece of a videotape box. It has your prints on it.”
“How do you know they’re my prints?”
“Your prints are on file. You were in the army, and you were arrested once for marijuana possession. We made a match.” Lanham made up the last part. The evidence techs hadn’t come back with anything conclusive on the videotape box fingerprints.
Gorky scowled. “Okay. I shot some tape. We were just fooling around. Having a good time. People started taking off their clothes. It happens in New York, you know. Shit. It probably happens in Iowa.”
“What people?”
“Molly, Belinda. A couple of guys.”
“And you?”
“I’m not on the tape.”
“What guys?”
“Pete Delasante, Molly’s sugar daddy from Washington. And a model Molly knows. Name’s Jimmy Woody.”
“What did you do with the tape?”
“I left it with Molly. Like the Polaroids. It was in the VCR. They were all looking at it when I left.”
“There was nothing in the VCR when we looked. No tape in the apartment.”
“Maybe she gave it to Pierre.”
“Maybe you kept it.” Lanham was writing in his notebook.
“Look. I didn’t keep it, okay? I got my own tape. What’s the big deal, anyway? I’ll bet you everyone with a video camera’s got some fun and games home movies somewhere. Half the video sales in New York are X-rated. Why are you hassling me? Are you a homicide detective or some moral crusader?”
“What do you mean, you got your own tape?”
Gorky scowled, then sighed impatiently.
“Okay. I shot a couple of tapes. I had one already in the camera when I went over there, and when that was shot up I put in another cassette. It was a long party.”
“Where’s the one you didn’t give Molly?”
“I kept it in the camera. It’s around the studio somewhere.”
“Did Molly know about the second tape? Did any of them?”
He shrugged again. “They were all pretty far gone.”
“I’d like to see that tape.”
“You bet your ass you would. That Belinda can suck a dick more ways than the Duchess of Windsor. But it’s no Oscar winner. I shot better stuff down in Mexico last year.”
“I want to see the tape. I can get a court order if I have to.”
“Hey, don’t lean on me, Detective. I’ve been trying to help you. I’ll look for it first chance I get. I’ll give you a call.”
Gorky’s crew had gathered near the bench. The model they were using was looking unhappy.
“Is she in one of your home movies?” Lanham asked.
“Are you kidding? Her father’s some big wheel at the U.N. and her husband’s an advertising executive. Most models aren’t like Molly and Belinda, you know. It’s not like the movies. They don’t have to put out to work.”
“You’re in the movies, Mr. Gorky.”
“Yeah. Can I go back to work now, Detective? It’s costing me money every minute they stand there.”
Lanham stood. “Give me straight answers from the start and we won’t have to talk so much.”
“I’ll look for that other tape. Have a nice day, Detective.”
A.C. was able to find out where Jimmy Woody lived from Vanessa, who gave him a peculiar look but said nothing. The address was in Chelsea, a neighborhood A.C. knew well. When he was a young reporter he had dated a girl who
lived in London Terrace, a venerable apartment complex on West Twenty-third Street. He and the girl had often gone to local joints, most particularly Mr. Spats, a smoky late-night saloon, and the bar of the Chelsea Hotel, where the girl liked to talk to “the enchanting weirdos.”
The girl was as long gone as Mr. Spats. He thought about her as he walked the old familiar streets. The weirdos were not long gone, and they were not enchanting. One old man, as much a loon as a panhandler, came roaring and raging at him from a doorway, bellowing curses after him when A.C. pushed him aside and hurried away.
Yet apartments here were renting for $2,000 a month or more. Even Chelsea was now chic.
Jimmy Woody lived on Twenty-second Street. His door was answered by a very thin black man. He was middle aged, balding, and wore a floral print short-sleeved shirt over a pair of shorts. He was barefoot. His eyebrows were inordinately dark and large, as though painted. His voice was as soft as it was deep.
“Jimmy is not here,” he said. He spoke slowly, uttering each word separately. He put his hand to his face.
“I’m with the New York Globe,” A.C. said. “I need to talk to him about a story we’re doing. It’s about a friend of his. Another model.”
The man’s eyes were dark and staring. “Would you like to come in?”
“No thank you. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
The man paused. “Jimmy has a friend. Uptown.” He pronounced the word as though it were a magic, far-off place.
“Can I find him there?”
“Perhaps he will return. He was here two days ago. We dined.”
A.C. took a step back.
“Would you like to come in and wait?”
“No. Thank you very much. Good night.”
There was a diner around the corner. It was also chic, with flowers in little vases on the Formica tabletops. The counterman, whom A.C. took for an out-of-work actor, knew Jimmy Woody and suggested he might be at the Diamond Head, a bar on Eighteenth Street. Several of the customers had stopped talking to listen to A.C.’s inquiry and turned to watch him when he left.
There were two women in the Diamond Head. It was a small and smoky place, dominated by a huge and garishly lit tropical fish tank. The women’s faces, heavily made up, were suffused in pink from that light. One of them, with long and very straight blond hair falling over her eyes, watched him as he came up to the bar, shifting her weight on the stool as though to encourage him to take the empty one next to her. He pretended not to notice.
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