Antenna Syndrome (22 page)

I didn’t know how long the first EDGAR had been
lurking at the bottom of the block. If its video had been running,
it might have tracked me entering Collister the wrong way. If so,
my claim would be deemed fraudulent. I’d face charges and a fine.
Just as EDGAR had eaten my bike, I might have to eat the loss.

As the cab went up Tenth, now just two blocks from
my condo at 57th, I saw a blond woman walking alone, followed by
two guys wearing hoodies pulled up. I told the cabbie to stop for a
better look. Despite the enviro-scarf, I recognized my neighbor. I
rolled down my window.

“Darcia!”

She looked my way. I beckoned to her. She ventured
to the curb, peering into the taxi.

“Hi, Keith? What’s up?”

“Let me give you a lift home.”

“It’s okay, I need the exercise.”

“Then you’d better start running. See those two guys
behind you?”

She looked over her shoulder. Something about them
signaled trouble. I opened the door and she jumped in. The two
hoods sprinted, hoping perhaps to snatch her purse or shopping bag.
The cabbie powered the window up, locked the doors, and pulled away
in a squeal of rubber. A mostly-empty beer can bounced off the rear
window, hazing the glass with ejaculated suds.

“What are you doing on the street so late?” I
asked.

“I couldn’t sleep. I went out to buy some
groceries.”

“This time of night, that’s crazy.”

“Maybe we’re all a little crazy,” she said. “Still
living here, when all the sane people have left.”

“Out here on the perimeter,” I said, “we are stoned,
immaculate.”

She nodded. “The Doors, right?”

I paid the taxi fare and offered to carry her
groceries, but she insisted she could handle it. In the elevator, I
looked at her. She wore jeans and a loose top, her hair in a
ponytail. She’d tugged her scarf down from her face, and even with
no makeup she was simply beautiful.

When we reached our floor I said, “I owe you a drink
for helping me the other night.”

“It’s kind of late.”

“You said you couldn’t sleep.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Maybe it’s what I need. Give me
a few minutes to put my groceries away and then I’ll come
over.”

I went back to my place and tidied up my living
room. I had a little time to spare, so I accessed the recordings
I’d made today on my iFocals and copied two brief segments. One was
from this afternoon when the kidnapper had called, and Viv had
asked about Marielle’s welfare, and a girl had screamed in the
background. The other was from tonight when I’d twisted Tatiana’s
nose and she’d emptied her lungs in pained protest.

Once that was done, I plugged the blue flash drive
into my tablet to see what was on it. It held only a single file
called “Ladybug Blues” but it was password-protected so I couldn’t
open it.

I made a quick call to Finder, explained the
situation and copied the three files to a joint folder we shared on
the cloud. He was off the clock at this late hour but promised to
tackle it tomorrow.

I unplugged the flash drive and hid it inside a box
of cereal. But I was confused. Was this the only flash drive or
were there two?

Someone had mailed Crabner a snotty tissue and a
flash drive with a locked file last month. Independently, after
intercepting Jordan’s phone call today, Jack had tipped off Tatiana
that LeVeen was supposed to receive a flash drive from his DMV
informant. That’s why she’d gone to his place today – to get her
hands on the incriminating data.

Were Crabner and the informant linked? If this
wasn’t the DMV data, what was
Ladybug Blues
all about? I
guessed I wouldn’t know until Finder had unlocked the file.

When Darcia showed up at my door a few minutes
later, I caught a subtle whiff of perfume.

“What’s your poison?” I asked after she’d looked
around my place and taken a seat at the kitchen counter.

“Got any pot? That always makes me sleepy.”

I poured us each a glass of red wine and rolled a
skinny joint that was gone in six puffs. We sat at the counter and
yakked. Maybe because we were both a little high, sitting near a
window with a view of the city, it was like chatting with someone
in the adjacent seat on a flight. Nice and easy, no affectation,
and surprisingly intimate.

“What kind of work do you do, Keith?”

“Private investigation, security,
extermination.”

She gave me a nervous look. “You kill people?”

“Bugs. When cockroach moms want to scare their kids,
they tell ‘em stories about me.”

She laughed in relief. “Tough guy, are you?”

“I have a tough time making ends meet. Otherwise,
I’m okay.”

“I’ve never seen you with anyone. How come a
good-looking guy like you doesn’t have a girlfriend?”

I told her about Gwen, how we’d been married seven
years, and just when the itch was supposed to have started, I’d
fallen more in love with her than ever. Once we’d had Lily, it
seemed our life was as complete as it could get. And then the
Brooklyn Blast had blown it all away...

I choked up, as I do on the rare occasions when I
confess my loss. It always felt like trying to cough up a giant
hairball nobody wanted to see. But Darcia placed a hand on mine and
gave me a gentle squeeze, and in her touch I felt more compassion
than words could say. I knew she’d lost her husband to cancer a few
years before the Blast and I suspected she’d never quite got over
it. Some relationships are like that...

We turned to different topics. After discovering we
both loved Chinese food, we agreed to go for Dim Sum one weekend.
She liked hiking and, although I hadn’t been in the woods since I
was Boy Scout, I was game for a day trip to the Adirondacks. I
liked to play the ponies but, with Aqueduct and Belmont Park
closed, suggested we could drive up to Saratoga Springs some
day.

We succumbed to the munchies and ate half a bag of
cashews. Next thing we knew it was pushing one thirty.

“I’d better go,” she said. “That smoke did the
trick. I’m ready for a mattress meltdown.”

I walked her to her door. We looked at each other a
moment and then leaned in for a kiss. It didn’t last long but it
was nice. I hugged her and closed my eyes a moment. It felt good.
No, better than that – it felt right.

“Thanks for what you did tonight,” she said. “Those
guys meant trouble.”

“No problem.” After she’d closed the door I went
back to my place. As I brushed my teeth, I looked at myself in the
mirror. I didn’t look like a hero, but maybe a man who’d caught a
glimpse of hope in a desperate world.

THURSDAY

Chapter 39

Over morning coffee I checked the news services.
LeVeen’s death had generated stories in every online publication.
Maybe it’d been a slow news day, but journalists liked to honor
their dead. His brief bio revealed that he’d contributed to almost
every publication in town. It seemed common knowledge he’d been
helping the Harris Jordan campaign, covering stories of political
corruption involving the Russian mafia. Most publications were
demanding prompt police action to bring his killer to justice.

The
Daily News
mentioned LeVeen was survived
by one brother Dale, both of their parents having died in the
Brooklyn Blast. I googled Dale LeVeen and found a phone number and
a Village address. I made a note to contact him, offer my
condolences, see if he could shed any light on the case wherein our
paths had crossed. Although I could’ve phoned, I favored the
face-to-face approach, getting my foot in their door, looking them
in the eye when I asked them questions. It probably wouldn’t lead
to anything, but if I didn’t try, I’d never know.

As for my associate Walker, there was only a brief
mention in the
Chelsea Crier
of a mutilated body found on
Pier 57, identity withheld pending contact with family. That’s how
it was in my business. Some got the 21-gun salute as a fallen hero,
others got the grave of the unknown soldier. I wondered what would
happen to me. Given the way I’d misspent my last five years, they’d
probably shove me behind the fridge and invite the neighborhood
cockroaches for an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I boiled two eggs while I took a shower, and made
toast while I toweled off. Cooking was not my forte. Considering
the way this case was going, I wondered what was. Investigating
wasn’t topping the list.

Over breakfast, I ran a search on the Schiller
Gallery. I got the art dealer’s full name and gathered some
background on him. He had a good professional reputation, so I did
a little more poking around into his social and family life. All
squeaky clean, but good to know.

After that, I checked the lineup for today’s races
at Saratoga Springs. A few horses looked promising. I did some
online research on a few punters’ sites to bolster my gut sense
with a little track history. Since I was solvent again, I placed
bets on three races and left it at that.

I’d no sooner finished cleaning up when I got a text
from Natalie Jordan, suggesting I join her at the Hutton Hotel for
a progress report. I brushed my teeth, put on my only suit and took
the elevator to the parking level. As I passed the storage section,
I thought of my bike that had been eaten last night by EDGAR. I
hoped the damn thing choked on a sprocket.

~~~

The Hutton was at Eleventh and 24th, overlooking the
Chelsea Waterside Park. Built just before the Brooklyn Blast, it’d
been designed as a period piece catering to British tourists and
fans of the Royal Family. Its gala opening had been attended by
King William and the Queen. In the lobby was a large canvas of King
George V with a bulldog, the King wearing a WW1 officer’s tunic,
his watery eyes looking like he’d just escaped an attack of mustard
gas at the front. A suit of armor stood guard at the front desk.
The bellhops dressed like English butlers. At the front desk, a
clerk called upstairs to confirm Ms. Jordan was ready to receive
me.

I knocked on the door of her ninth-floor suite.
Natalie Jordan answered wearing a business suit. The suite had
wallpaper and wainscoting, antique furniture and a chandelier. She
beckoned me to join her in the lounge area where a silver tray on
the coffee table bore continental breakfast fare.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.” I accepted a cup. “How was the West
Coast?”

“Getting crowded. Every day I meet another New
Yorker who’s decided to give it a chance.”

“Hope springs eternal,” I said, “everywhere except
in this town.”

“Speaking of hope, how’s it going? You still haven’t
found Marielle?”

“No, but I’ve learned a few interesting things about
her.”

“Such as?”

“That she’s your half-sister.”

She flushed. “I guess you’ve done your
homework.”

“Right. I also learned you work for
The
Confidant
.”

She frowned. “What about it?”

“What’s your agenda? The
Confidant
churns out
an amazing volume of scuttlebutt. You don’t care about the facts,
so long as you titillate the masses.
Sex Lives of the Stars
.
Mother Eats Only Child
.
Vampires in the Subways
.
Distribution in the millions. A network of writers cranking out
offbeat stories, the more bizarre the better. Your tagline could
be,
It might not be true, but you heard it here first
.
What’ve you got planned for Marielle?”

“It’s not like that at all.”

“Tell me how it is. And if you really care about
her, tell me everything.”

She sighed. “I wasn’t planning to write a story on
her. I was in town last weekend researching another story when I
spotted something in a Twitter feed covering the SoHo art scene.
Reclusive artist paints insect portraits.
That sounded like
Marielle, so Sunday afternoon I checked out the Schiller Gallery
mentioned in the Twitter feed.

“I recognized Marielle’s work immediately. I’d seen
sketches years ago but had no idea she’d honed her talent and found
her niche. Nor that she was making so much money. I called Vivien,
thinking this might be a win/win situation, wherein I could write
an exclusive profile, and Marielle would get publicity.

“When Vivien answered the phone, she was hysterical.
She thought I was someone else, and kept asking, Is she okay? I
told her it was me. Right away she blurted out that Marielle had
disappeared. I dropped everything and drove out to Long Island.
Vivien and I hadn’t seen each other in years. Under normal
circumstances, it would’ve been a nice social visit but, given her
state, it was anything but.”

“Was Jack there too?”

“Yes. He was upset, and they’d been arguing ever
since they’d discovered Marielle had disappeared on Saturday.
Vivien wanted to call my father and tell him what’d happened. Jack
was dead set against it. He insisted she hadn’t been kidnapped,
probably just run away, and after a few days she’d return home. She
had a dozen paintings in progress, and she couldn’t just leave it
behind. It made sense, but mostly he was afraid that if my father
found out Marielle had disappeared on Jack’s watch, he’d be out of
a job.”

“Did Vivien tell you about Marielle’s friends
Crabner and Myers?”

“No, and I had no time to play detective. My editor
wanted me back in California for a huge story.”

“The Governor’s suicide?”

“Big smelly scandal. We’ll be writing follow-up for
months. I’m only back here for two days, to interview some women
from the governor’s past.”

“And the story on Marielle…?”

“Under the circumstances, that’d be very
inappropriate. Bad publicity could compromise my father’s run for
mayor.”

“You don’t have an axe to grind?” I told her what
I’d learned about the late Jennifer Teale. “Payback for what he did
to you and your mother?”