Текст книги "Privileged Lives"

Автор книги: Edward Stewart

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

“Rumor is a lot of heavyweights interceded for Loring. He must be one popular guy.”

“Who interceded?”

“It’s just rumor. The archdiocese of New York—some real estate moguls by the names of Nat Chamberlain and Harold Benziger—Cyrus Hastings, president of Citichem Bank. Know any of them?”

“No—and neither does Loring.”

“Why the hell did you make the deal with Morgenstern?” Cardozo said. “Now we’ve got a killer loose, skipping around spreading AIDS.”

District Attorney Alfred Spaulding rose, crossed the office, and closed the door. He returned to his desk and gazed imperturbably at Cardozo. “To clear the Downs case we had to deal with Morgenstern; he happened to be defending the accused.”

“Who the hell wasn’t he defending?” The words came hurtling out of Cardozo’s throat. “I questioned the dealer who sold the mask, Morgenstern’s associate rushed in, you can’t do this to our client. I questioned the doorman who was running coke in the building, Morgenstern’s associate rushed in, you can’t do this to our client. I arrested the killer, Morgenstern came rushing in, you can’t do this to my client. Morgenstern was wired in to this from the very start, before we even knew who the dead man was. He would have defended the hooker on the ninth floor if we’d accused her of farting. Ted Morgenstern was ready to defend anyone connected in any way with this killing. Why? Who paid him? You’re going to tell me this was pro bono, this coverup, this fix?”

“What the hell are you calling a fix?”

“The director of Citichem bank and the Catholic archdiocese of New York and the two guys who own every building in Manhattan that Donald Trump doesn’t—they all petition the governor to commute Loring’s sentence. You think that comes free? You think those people even know who Claude Loring is? Ted Morgenstern was calling in favors. He’s represented the archdiocese against the city, he’s represented Citichem against the city, he’s represented Benziger and Chamberlain before the zoning commission. Those are major call-ins. For a punk. Doesn’t that even make you curious?”

“Vince, we’ve talked about this.”

“Let’s talk some more.”

“The case is closed. A guy was killed, we caught his killer. My curiosity stops there. In case you haven’t heard, this city isn’t exactly operating in the black. If we can clear a case without coming to trial that’s a saving. Yes I did a deal, and I saved time and money. It was in line with city policy and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“There’s more to it than that, Al. Three weeks after Judge Davenport imposed the sentence he signed a piece of paper suspending it. No publicity, nothing in the papers.”

Either Spalding already knew or he was doing a good job of not showing surprise. “Judges have the discretion to suspend sentences.”

“Jesus, wake up. We’re deep in the valley of the shadow of dollars. Whithersoever Counselor Morgenstern walks, money goes. You know it and you’re still dealing with him, and I’m not just talking plea bargain.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

Cardozo was staring at Alfred Spaulding, thinking about power—about the people who owned it and the things they chose to do with it. “What the hell do I need to accuse you of—you fucking admitted it when you phoned and told me to stop hassling Morgenstern’s friends. His friends are killers, Al. You gotta know it. You’re not a dumb man. Not dumb that way.”

Spalding’s eyes narrowed into thin wary slits. A shadow played across his face. “Who did they kill?”

“They killed Jodie Downs.”

“Claude Loring killed Jodie Downs.”

“A bunch of Morgenstern’s freak friends did it and that’s why Morgenstern’s calling you to call me off, and that’s why you’re calling the CD to call me off. You know it, Al. And you’re still letting it go down, and that puts you in the same shit as the rest of them.”

Spalding was shouting. “There was one killer in the Downs case!”

“There was a bunch!” Cardozo shouted back. “I have a witness!”

Something in the D.A.’s face opened just a crack, letting out a thin wisp of fear. “Vince, drop it. There weren’t witnesses.”

“There were witnesses, there were accomplices. Why do you think Loring walked? That was the deal they paid Morgenstern to cut. Loring confessed, Loring walked, they stayed out of sight.”

Spalding expelled his breath, sharply. “Who’s your witness?”

“You think I’m going to tell you? You think I can even trust you? I can trust you to do one thing, and that’s to go straight to Morgenstern. So why don’t you go straight to Morgenstern, and you tell him that last night I moved my files out of my office and put them in the hands of someone who knows how to use them if anything happens to me.”

“What the hell do you think could happen to you, Vince?”

“You know damned well what could happen—I could get sent to Park Slope, I could get my pension lifted, I could get dead.”

“Look, Vince, I honestly think you’re getting a little paranoid—”

“And you lay off the CD. Because I’m going to close this case. And if the CD or anyone else starts asking you about me, you tell them I’m working on special assignment for you.”

“Hold on, Vince. That’s just not believable.”

“Make it believable! Al, it’s, your ass I’ll be saving. Your office fucking miscarried with Babe Devens and Jodie Downs. But it doesn’t need to come out that you knew. You cover for me and I’ll cover for you—that’s the deal, okay?”

Spalding sat for a long time, staring at Cardozo, staring at his desktop, staring again at Cardozo.

“Okay.”

“You can’t go in there,” the secretary said primly. “He’s in conference.”

Cardozo pushed through the door.

Morgenstern looked up from his desk, his eyes barely visible through the lowered slits of his eyelids. “Got a problem, Cardozo?”

“I want Claude Loring.”

“Ever heard of double jeopardy? You can’t touch Loring.”

“He can be indicted for obstruction, and so can you.”

“Bull.”

“You hand Claude Loring over to me for questioning or I will personally tail you and bust you for possession of coke or sucking the cocks of minors, whichever you do first.”

Morgenstern’s eyes pinpointed in cold fury. The office suddenly had the suffocating stillness of a plastic bag.

A petite woman was sitting on a corner of a chintz sofa. She had iron gray hair and she wore a stylish dark silk dress and she had the unflappable look of someone who was always being photographed and reported on.

She was watching Cardozo with an interested, completely calm expression, waiting expectantly for more.

Morgenstern sprang up from his chair.

Cardozo leaned across the desk and grabbed the knot of his blue-and-gold regimental. “You think that pardon’s going to hold?”

Morgenstern wrenched loose. He seized an ivory letter opener.

Cardozo allowed a smile to open on his face. “You think the Republicans are going to let our Democratic governor get away with that?”

“You’re not going to harass my client!” Morgenstern was backed against an étagère loaded with Kiwanis citations and autographed celebrity photos. His cobra-lidded eyes were blinking rapidly and an artery was pulsing in his temple. “We happen to live under a system called the law, Mr. Nazi, and you just get the hell out of this office and don’t come back without a warrant!”

“And let me tell you something, Clarence Darrow. You may be a whiz when it comes to engineering compassionate commutations for cold-blooded killers, but this commutation just boomeranged, because yesterday in Central Park some freak ripped the panties off of Harold Benziger’s stepdaughter and murdered her.”

“There’s no fucking connection!”

“What do you bet the Daily News can find a connection—like poetic justice? And shit will the press love the archdiocese tie-in. I’d like to see how fast His Eminence gives you the gate.”

“I don’t rat on my clients, and if any lies about any commutation appear in any newspaper, I’ll have you off the force! I will personally have your ass!”

“You’ll personally have my ass in your face, snake gills.” Cardozo turned to the little lady on the sofa. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Vlaminck.”

“Have we met?” she said pleasantly.

“We were at the same table at Holcombe Kaiser’s party for Tina Vanderbilt,”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, indeed. Nice to see you.”

“We fought like we’ve never fought before. I told him, don’t do crack, it makes you crazy. He threatened me with the bread knife.”

Faye di Stasio sat there a long time, her breasts rising and falling with the rhythm of her memories.

“I had to get him out. I couldn’t let him stay, crazy like that.”

Tears flooded her eyes. There was a defensive tone in her voice, but she didn’t look defensive. She looked crushed, as if all defenses had failed her long ago.

“I changed the locks. I can’t even begin to tell you the stuff he did.”

She began to tell him.

Cardozo listened patiently. She had something he needed and he was willing to flatter her with attention, even kindness if necessary, to get it.

“The cat—he killed the cat.” She looked at him blankly. “Who’d do a thing like that? Killing a cat?”

They sat there in silence. She lowered her eyes. She seemed shrunken. She was breathing hard, cigarette idling in one hand.

“Faye—where’s Claude now?”

“Gone.”

“Where?”

“I’m too tired, too confused to even want to think where.”

“He got a compassionate commutation to take care of his mother. Think he could be with her?”

She floated him a look. “His mother’s been dead three years.”

Cardozo breathed deeply, feeling frustration like a weight across his back. “Will you let me know if he shows up?”

“He won’t show up.” Her lower lip was trembling. “Not if he wants to stay living.”

Cardozo touched her cheek. “Don’t kill him. Phone me and let me do it for you, okay?”

Eight hours later, thinking Claude Loring might have returned to play in his old pigpen, Cardozo personally dredged the Inferno. Mission unsuccessful. It was four in the morning when he decided to call yesterday a day. He pulled himself groggily up the stairs and out into the street.

After the Inferno, New York smelled clean. Mist was closing in, washing the colors out of the buildings opposite.

Cardozo walked slowly south, stepping over fetid pockets of gutter water. The echo of his footsteps followed him. He passed a few moving figures on the sidewalk, a few zonked-out forms in doorways.

At the corner of Little West Twelfth and Gansevoort streets a truck blared its horn, blasting Cardozo out of his thoughts.

He stepped back and watched the driver negotiate the turn. There was a grinning steer painted on the side of the truck, and below it the message Sam’s Beef—Nobody Beats Our Meat.

Cardozo crossed the street. His feet were aware of edges and uneven surfaces, and he looked down and saw that the pavement had changed from asphalt to cobblestones.

His eyes came up and he was struck by something, a sign attached to the warehouse on the corner ahead of him. He paused to read the weathered black lettering.

SHELLS

SOBRELOMO

RIBS

LOMO

HIPS

PALOMILLA

KNUCKLES

BOLA

EYES

BOLICHE

TOPS

CAÑADA

SHINS

JARRETE

FILLETS

FILETE

To the right of the sign a doorway was tilting ten degrees off the vertical, leaning toward the Hudson River.

Cardozo stepped back and took a long, careful look. The building was six-storied, wood-framed, in poor repair. There were places where the shingle siding had begun to drop off.

Every bone in his body vibrated with the conviction that he knew this building.

“Where are these meat trucks, Babe?”

“In the street”

“What street?”

“Outside the building.”

Cardozo was sitting in his livingroom, sipping a Bud, his hand dipping into a bag of Nacho-flavored Doritos.

On the table Babe Vanderwalk Devens’s voice spooled out of the cassette player, dreaming, disembodied.

“The building is on the corner. The cobbled street meets the asphalt. The building is falling apart. The sign is in English and Spanish. Body parts of cows. The doorway is on the left. That’s where I go in.”

45

MATHILDE LHEUREUX HAPPENED TO be nearest when the phone rang. “Babe,” she said, one hand over the mouthpiece, “for you—a Mr. Cardozo.”

Babe took the receiver and lifted the cord over the head of one of the seamstresses. “Vince? It doesn’t sound like you.”

“It’s me. What are you doing?”

“Eighty-two things at once.”

Babe felt Mathilde Lheureux’s old humorous frowning gaze fix on her. Mathilde’s gray hair had turned totally white and she wore it pinned back from her forehead, but she still had the shrewd, naughty eyes of a playful monkey. Babe found something infinitely reassuring in that familiar smile and in that dear old face, only slightly aged from the face she remembered.

“Can you fit in an eighty-third?” Cardozo said.

Babe sighed. “Vince, it’s crazy here.”

Which was putting it mildly. She had been able to rent a little space for her own atelier in the penthouse of the Babethings building. Lawyers were working on the papers—for the moment she had a verbal agreement with Billi—and she and Mathilde had started on her summer and fall lines. Naturally, they hadn’t been able to put together their old group—but they’d found one of their old seamstresses, and one of the beaders, and two of the tailors.

“I guess I didn’t put that right,” Cardozo said. “I need your help. Can you meet me?”

Damn, Babe thought. “When?”

“Soon as possible.”

They crossed Gansevoort Street through the bright sunlight—Babe in her pale blue Chanel, and Cardozo with his .38 in the armpit of his seersucker jacket, holding a tape recorder.

The wind had swept away the fog, and the sky had the blinding colorless brightness of a scoured frying pan.

Babe’s eyes scanned the derelict buildings. A perplexed expression hovered on her face.

Cardozo pushed the button on the cassette player. Babe’s voice came sleepwalking out. “The building is on the corner. The cobbled street meets the asphalt.”

He took note of her reactions. Her hand tightening into a fist. Her mouth pulling shut. Her eyes narrowing, as though fending off images.

Next to the warehouse was a construction site: three stories of girders, and from the look of it many more to come. The steel was already rusted, as if it had been recycled from another structure.

One of the two signs was crudely painted on plywood:

DEMOLITION BY ZAMPIZI BROS.

347 FLOWER STREET, BROOKLYN N.Y.

The other was professionally lettered in flowing script:

THIS SITE WILL BE THE LOCATION OF

THE LUXOR

A THIRTY-TWO-STORY LUXURY CO-OP

BROUGHT TO YOU BY BALTHAZAR PROPERTIES

READY FOR SPRING OCCUPANCY

OFFERING BY PROSPECTUS ONLY

Workers moved slowly about on foot and machine. The zonked winos of the neighborhood had gathered on the opposite sidewalk, in front of the Espanita meat-packing plant, to watch and cheer.

The air smelled of rancid oil and decomposing animal parts with a faint understench of diluted sewage.

He paced himself to her, slow and easy.

In front of the warehouse, dappled in the sunlight, a pile of broken plaster waited in a dumpster. A man wearing a filthy I Love New York T-shirt and barber-pole-striped skivvies was picking bare-handed through the rubble.

Cardozo pushed the cassette button again.

“The sign is in English and Spanish. Body parts of cows.”

Babe stopped to stare at the sign.

“Familiar?”

She shook her head. She shuddered. “How can they eat eyes?”

“The doorway is on the left. That’s where I go in.”

Beside the shadowy doorway a trickle of water seeped from a split in the brick wall, zigzagging across the sidewalk.

The entrance area was dim and windowless, smelling of darkness and mildew. There was a bank of eight tarnished buzzers, four of them labeled. Cardozo copied down the names.

“Up the stairs in the dark. One flight.”

He led the way, climbing slowly up the peeling stairs. Babe guided herself up behind him, hand sliding lightly along the banister.

The stairway had cracked plaster walls, a ceiling fuzzy with spiderwebs. Heat beat stiflingly against the boarded windows. The narrow steps hadn’t been swept in years, but then the people likely to use a stairway in a building like this were apt to have other things on their minds than hygiene.

At the first landing Cardozo glanced down the crumbling hallway. Electric wires dangled from the ceiling. A junkie was sprawled in a doorway, snoring.

“Another flight.”

They went up a second flight of decaying stairs.

“I can hear voices.”

“Whose voices?”

“Mickey Mouse. Richard Nixon.”

Three steps led from the next landing to the corridor.

The hallway was two doors deep, with windows on one side. Hexagonal wire ribbing reinforced the panes.

“I open the door.”

“Which door, Babe?”

She stared at the first door. Her head came around. “That one.”

Cardozo crouched at the second door.

Babe hung back.

He inserted his MasterCard in the crack between the door and the jamb.

The door panels were the color of tapioca pudding that had been left out of the refrigerator for thirty years. Paint was peeling off the woodwork.

His hands moved carefully, silently, jiggling the latch open. The door swung smoothly inward.

She came down the corridor hesitantly.

She waited at the doorsill, staring. The room had been freshly painted a bright, flat white. It was stripped of all furnishing.

She went in first and he closed the door behind them. He slid the bolt.

She stood at the window and looked at the view across the low roofs of the surrounding warehouses to the higher roofs of Greenwich Village’s rowhouses. In the distance loomed the peaked high rises going up along the river and the glass towers of the financial district.

Cardozo began at the top. His eyes roamed the ceiling, noted it was freshly plastered, then slid over walls, freshly plastered and painted. The floor was oak boarding, polyurethaned to a mirror gloss. He noted long, parallel rows of new scratches, as though the wood had been freshly clawed by a dragon.

It was the sort of place that made nighttime sounds during the day: waterpipes talking to themselves, floorboards squeaking, things pinging in the walls.

His eye was troubled by dead spots on the floor where the light didn’t reflect. He crouched and made out a spattering of rust-colored deposits, barely visible.

“They don’t hear me. John Wayne is passing champagne. The man is naked.” “What man, Babe?” “The young man. I don’t know him. He has blond hair. He’s lying in the corner.”

“Which corner, Babe?”

Babe walked slowly into the other room. Also empty. Also white. There were two paper cups by the radiator, lying on their side.

Cardozo picked one up and saw the dry ring of coffee in the bottom. A bit further along a bottle top glinted. He stooped. Heineken beer.

“Winnie the Pooh and the Mad Hatter pick him up and tie him to the H.”

Now she snapped around and stared at the north wall. Something about it absorbed her. She was holding herself slightly forward of the perpendicular, trembling, on the brink of something.

His eye scanned, picking out details where there had only been featureless white. Ripples in the plaster. Lumps in the paint. A small elephant-shaped stain, a little below shoulder level, the color of rust. Next to it two holes, each a quarter inch in diameter. Someone had bored through the plaster into the wood beam beneath.

Below the two holes, at knee level, another pair of holes, identical to the first. Four feet to the right, two more pairs of holes, similarly spaced.

There was another rust-colored stain at ankle level, this one shaped like a tiny map of South America.

“Vince,” she said, her voice tight and shaking. “I’m going to be sick. I have to get out of here.”

Cardozo dialed Melissa Hatfield’s work number.

“I see you people are putting up a condo in the meat-packing district. Charming neighborhood.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“Would you have time to run another real estate trace for me? Two lots down from your new condo there’s a warehouse. Five eighteen Gansevoort.”

“I know the building. It’s your basic abandoned firetrap.”

“You sure it’s abandoned? There are names on half the mailboxes.”

“Those are welfare drops. Standard scam with the Department of Human Resources, getting aid for nonexistent dependent children. No one lives there. We wanted to buy, so we checked. The owner’s holding out, listing bogus rent-control tenants. You can’t evict anyone under rent control. The land rights are going to skyrocket and the owner thinks he can make a killing. He’s got a surprise coming. The city’s reassessing all the property on that block. The taxes will quintuple and he’ll have to sell. Nat Chamberlain’s going to be the only bidder the city allows. So you see, it pays to contribute to the mayor’s reelection campaign.”

“The owner’s got more than welfare phantoms in there. Somebody’s been using the front apartment on the third floor. And I think they had a lease, because they made improvements. I need to know who.”

“I suppose the owner could have leased to an actor or artist—something temporary. Anything’s possible. I’ll check.”

“You ever see anything going on in that apartment?”

Cardozo pointed. The warehouse appeared dead, remote, the clouds behind it a menacing smudge.

The old man’s eyes narrowed blearily beneath a shock of white hair. A varicose, hawklike nose dominated his face. He shrugged, not bothering to lift himself from the doorstep where he had made himself a pallet of newspapers and old rags. A smell of animal blood rose from the pavement.

Cardozo opened his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and dangled it.

The old man reached up a trembling hand and took the money. The rip in his undershirt widened and another fold of white torso blobbed out. “Used to see things. Hasn’t been anything going on up there since they moved out.”

“When did they move out?”

A soot-caked fingernail scratched white cheek-stubble. “First week in June.”

“Remember the name of the moving company?”

“Shit, I don’t remember my own name.”

“What kind of furniture?”

“Couches, tables, lamps, cameras, black leather shit.”

“What kind of black leather shit?”

“Black leather shit like they got in all those asshole clubs around here.”

“What kind of cameras?”

“Video. You could hock ’em for maybe eighty bucks.”

“Did you see the people who used the place?”

Silence.

Cardozo opened his wallet again.

A prostitute wobbled past on high heels, slowing to stare at the ten-dollar bill. The skirt was ass-hugging tangerine stretch nylon and the blond wig could have been swiped from a department store dummy.

A ship’s horn bleated on the river.

The old man took the money; the prostitute immediately picked up speed, calves rippling with muscle.

“They had parties. Fridays, Saturdays. Limousines parked up and down all along here.” The old man’s hand indicated the deserted street.

“Every weekend?”

“Just now and then.”

“What kind of people?”

“What kind of people ride limousines? Rich assholes. Scared they’re gonna get mugged or bitten by a rat.”

“How were they dressed?”

“Tuxes, dresses, costumes.”

“What kind of costumes?”

“Leather.”

“Any idea what they were doing up there?”

“I dunno.” The old man broke out laughing. His breath was an explosive mix of beer and tooth decay. “They never invited me.”

“Come on, earn that twenty. You must’ve heard something, seen something.”

“Couldn’t see nothin’. They closed the curtains. Heard music. Singin’. Once in a while screamin’.”

“Screaming?”

“Sounded like screamin’. Music was so loud couldn’t be sure.”

“What kind of screaming? Like someone was singing, or drunk, or hurting or what?”

“Screamin’ like someone was screamin’.”

Cardozo stared at the warehouse. The one streetlight still working made the block look all the more abandoned.

“Did you ever see a body carried out?” he asked.

“All they did was carry each other out of that place. Some of them arrived so stoned they had to carry each other in.”

“You never saw a dead body?”

“How you gonna tell the difference? They were dead on their feet. Haven’t seen ’em in a month. Since those movers.”

Cardozo patted the old man on the shoulder and crossed toward the warehouse. He had almost reached the other sidewalk when a blue Pontiac swerved around him, pulling to a stop in the middle of the block.

A black-and-white cat mewed from the gutter.

The blond wig turned. The prostitute stepped with exaggerated elegance off the sidewalk, clacked across the cobblestones, and bent down to confer with the driver.

After a moment the driver threw open the passenger door and the prostitute hopped in.

Tony Bandolero, from Forensic, was waiting in the shadow by the warehouse door. He was frowning, running a hand through his curly brown hair. “Why are all transvestite hookers black?”

“Are they?”

“That one is.”

Cardozo watched the Pontiac pull across Washington Street. “Why are the customers all white, why do they all have New Jersey license plates?”

“Do they?”

“That one does.”

Cardozo pushed open the door and flicked on the flashlight. They went inside and up the stairs.

“What do those hookers charge?” Tony Bandolero asked.

“I hear fifty bucks.”

“Fifty bucks for a blow job? No wonder the country’s going to hell.”

A rat froze for an instant in the light, then scurried.

Tony Bandolero held the flashlight and Cardozo opened the door with his MasterCard.

In the dimness of the apartment the shadow of the window ribbing made a slanting pattern on the floor. Cardozo crossed through the puddles of light. He gazed out through the panes. The moon was glowing on the roofs of the city.

“These scratches look like someone was moving something heavy.” Tony was squatting close to the floor. The flashlight lay on its side, lighting up a triangle of polyurethaned planking. “Refrigerator, maybe.”

“I want to know what those stains are,” Cardozo said.

“Let’s find out.” Tony opened his toolkit and selected a scalpel. Working the blade around the stained wood, he loosened a fragment, lifted it, and deposited it in a plastic evidence bag.

He played the flashlight along the floor, found other stains, took scrapings.

In the doorless doorway between the rooms he crouched to gaze at the doorjamb. The flashlight beam was showing him a rust-colored stain at knee level, a tangle of whorls and spirals.

“Hold the light for me, would you?”

Cardozo squatted beside him and took the flashlight.

Tony chiseled a cut around the stain, loosened the wood beneath it, lifted the stain with tweezers, and placed it between two sheets of glassine.

Cardozo played the light along the jamb. There was a similar stain on the neighboring surface, at the same level.

“What I think we got,” Tony said, “is fingerprints. Funny place for prints, down there.”

“Unless the body was slung over someone’s shoulder.”

Tony nodded. “Coming through the doorway he tried to grab.”

“He would have been alive, then,” Cardozo said. “Conscious.”

“Have to be. Grabbing like that isn’t reflex. Wherever he was being carried, he wasn’t in any rush to get there.”

“The scrapings are human blood,” Lou Stein said. “Type O.”

“Jodie Downs’s type,” Cardozo said.

“Bear in mind it’s a very common type. Eighty percent of the human race—”

“I know, I know.”

“The marks on the doorjamb are a thumb and partial index.”

Cardozo’s hand tightened on the receiver. “Whose?”

“They match Jodie Downs’s prints.”

“So he was there in that apartment. He was cut and carried out alive.”

“Looks it.”

“Thanks, Lou.” Cardozo hung up the receiver. He didn’t know how many minutes he sat absolutely still in his chair, running people and events in his mind, freezing images, going back, comparing, fast-forwarding, trying an image here, trying it there, finding the place where it fitted.

The pattern expanded before his eyes, opening to include all those pieces that had never fitted in before, all the brightly colored expensive people who had been hovering over the mud and blood from the beginning but who had never quite belonged to the same ugly, brutal universe.

The images linked and locked:

The apartment in the meat-packing warehouse-sex club area where glittering people had come in limousines. Babe Devens’s memory of cartoon characters torturing Jodie Downs. Loring carrying Downs out of the apartment into Faye di Stasio’s van, leaving bloodstains; parking the van in the garage at Beaux Arts Tower; taking Downs up the service elevator to apartment six. Snuffing him there.

“You were right.” There were dark circles under Melissa Hatfield’s clear gray eyes, as though she’d been putting in too much overtime. “The apartment on Gansevoort Street was rented. A man called Lewis Monserat had a three-year lease on it.”

“The art dealer?” Cardozo said.

They were sitting in the rear booth at Danny’s Bar and Grill on East Sixty-seventh, nursing two coffees. It was cool and dry here. The weather on the other side of the plate glass window was drizzle shot through with sunset.

Melissa nodded. “He had three two-year leases before the last lease. He broke it May thirty-first. It had a year and a half to run. Actually, he vacated four days earlier, May twenty-seventh.”

The first business day, Cardozo reflected, after the body had been found in Beaux Arts Tower. “The apartment couldn’t have been his residence.”

“No. But the lease was residential. So it was some sort of pied-à-terre.”

“Unusual neighborhood.”

“He must like having a pied-à-terre. He put a binder on a loft in a co-op five days later.” She was watching Cardozo with an odd intensity. She had a habit of smiling with her mouth and retracting the smile with her eyes. “Four thirty-two Franklin Street. Apartment four-A. Down in TriBeCa.”

He nodded, thinking. “Makes sense. Same sort of neighborhood—warehouses and small businesses.”

“It was for three minutes. Then the artists fleeing SoHo rents moved in, and then real estate moved in, and now it’s the section of town for young established types—college professors, financial consultants, lawyers. People who think it’s square to live uptown.”

“How much did Monserat pay for the new place?”

“Too much and a half. The bank put up seventy-five percent, and he still can’t afford it. He needed a cosigner.”

“How come he couldn’t swing it on his own? I thought his gallery was one of the biggest in town.”

“So what? Who’s going to pay two hundred thousand for an eight-by-eight of a pickle? You can hit on the New York State Foundation for the Arts once, twice, then your market’s dried up. Monserat’s gallery is a penny-ante laundering operation for dope money.”