Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (6 page)

He whispered, “Trash can. With my phone.”

I checked his clothing. He had a paper towel stuck to the seat of his pants. I did not feel compelled to point that out.

Shep’s hair fell forward slightly, and he reached to push it from his eyes.

Dan’s eyes crinkled as he smiled in recognition. “Hey. You’re the Wheaties guy. I’ve seen you on TV.”

Shep, ever the attention whore, smiled. “And you are?” Maybe he knew this man for what he was—a cop. They could have met last night. Maybe the detective was the one who’d fucked and fled. They’d both disappeared at roughly the same time. I looked between them. Dan wasn’t in awe of the burgeoning actor—which could confirm they’d been intimate if my recollection of an inebriated Shep with a half-flagged erection was anything to go by.

“Is that him?” I hissed between clenched teeth.

Shep all but shoved me out of the way, walking forward with his hand outstretched, eager to introduce himself to the quiet, watchful man with the scarred hands. I had to wonder what he made of our rude whispering and Shep’s carroty skin tone.

The two exchanged names, and then Shep, hearing the word “detective”, spun around to nail me with a wounded expression. “I thought we said no cops?”

Dan’s eyes locked on mine and his bold brow went up. “I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m merely window shopping. Is there a problem?”

“No. Sheppard has an unnatural fear of authority figures—and men in uniform.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Caesar?” He turned to Dan. “I played Detective Dan on television, you know? Hey. That’s kind of cool. We’re both Detective Dan.” He chuckled and I was mortified for him. “I have no problem with police officers.”

And then his phone rang and he stared at it. “I have to take this call. My agent, Estelle. Very important stuff. I’ll be back.” He stepped through the front door and I watched, slack-jawed, as he ran down the steps and hit the street. He hailed a cab, paper towel dangling from his backside.

“So what’s the deal with him?”

My nose practically pressed to the window, we watched Shep yell into his cell phone and then hop into the cab. He never once looked back. “He’s an actor.”

“Yeah. So why’s he orange?”

“He’s an Oompa Loompa.”

The detective chuckled. I could tell it was unwilling, but it slipped out nonetheless.

“So, Dan. How can I help you because, uh, something’s come up and I…I…uh…need to run an errand.”

He leaned back, the view on the street no longer of interest. “Is that typical? Aren’t you the only one in the building?”

“Yes.” How would he know that? “I’m here on the weekends alone unless Peter is in town.”

“I see.”

What did he see? “Well, I hope so,” I said inanely and handed him a catalogue. Justin’s Swatch eyes stared vapidly at us in full-blown Technicolor. “Is this everything?”

He rested against the doorway in no hurry to get moving. “Actually, I’d be interested in a tour, if you have time?”

“Tour?” I gulped. Jesus, he had it bad. “You know, we need to take a rain check on that. You could come by tomorrow.” I didn’t have time for whatever this guy was looking for.

Dan pushed off from the wall and pulled his shades back out of his pocket. Settling them on his straight nose, he said, “I’ll do that. Tomorrow it is.”

I drove Poppy’s delivery truck—her catering van was literally an old pink milk truck with
Pish Posh Nosh
emblazoned on the sides—back toward Brooklyn at half past twelve. She’d emptied her truck last night, presumably before she’d disappeared with her unknown guest, and abandoned it in the parking lot behind her catering café on 4
^th
Street. I’d leave it at her apartment, but now I had commandeered it. I had errands to run. I also had her Rolodex. She might be upset with me, but it was often easier to ask for forgiveness than it was to ask for permission. She’d still love me tomorrow. Besides, I was only going to look up a few names.

I closed the gallery. It was as easy as getting rid of the intrepid detective, flipping the sign on the window, setting the alarm and giving the finger to the rest of the day. I needed to call every waiter on Poppy’s pay list for last night, bring my nana for her weekly sojourn to the market, and—if at all possible—find Sheppard so I could throttle him with my bare hands. My cousin Joey was looking more and more appealing.

My cell phone rang—it was Peter finally calling from Santa Fe. I needed to tread lightly. He could be difficult. “Hello, Peter.”

“Caesar. Why aren’t you answering the main line? I’ve been calling since the plane touched down. We need a Saturday receptionist. I keep telling you that.”

“We can’t afford one. Why didn’t you phone my cell earlier? I’ve…been…tied up. I need to ask you about the—”

“Shush. Listen to me. I need you to do something. You absolutely have to get this done.”

I sighed. He never listened. What else was new? The light changed, and I stepped on the gas, hoping to make it before the light turned red. A cab behind me laid on his horn. “Sure and then we need to talk about the—”

“You need to go to my office, take the key from under the Rodin…”
it was a reproduction,
“…and unlock the storage facility. I’ll wait. Tell me when you have it.”

I was six blocks from the gallery and heading in the opposite direction. “All right.” Shit. I looked around and, slowing, made a wide, illegal u-turn. It was awkward in the milk truck, and frankly insane in the city, but on Saturday the traffic was light. More horns tooted.

Peter yammered on in my ear. “What’s all that noise?”

“It’s coming from outside.”

“You did a nice job last night. However, there’s been an incident.”

“Tell me about it,” I mumbled. I stepped heavily on the gas, and the truck puttered along as I backtracked. I stalled him. “I need to check on…the…alarm first. Is something wrong? You know, the security system wasn’t on this morning when I arrived. Peter, you have to set the alarm or we’re going to lose our insurance.”

Silence greeted that pronouncement.

“Hello?”

“I…thought I had set it. Are you sure?”

“The indicator light was dark. Yes. I’m positive. Listen. We have a problem. One of the—”

“Have you been in my studio?” he asked frostily.

“Of course not.” I had been in that area precisely three times in the past four years. “I respect the privacy of other people.” Words that would come to haunt me later. “I’ve only been up there with you on those few occasions.”

“Yes. Well. That’s as it should be. I need you to go to the studio right now.”

Christ. I zipped through another intersection, weaving almost drunkenly through the taxicabs. My stomach growled as I passed the McDonald’s. “Can this wait ten minutes…fifteen tops? I’m starving.”

“No. Absolutely not. I need you to do this right now. Are you with a client?”

I hated to lie. Hated it. “Er. Yes. I…need…I need…to finish…this. And have lunch. I feel weak. I’ll call you right back.”

“Five minutes. I don’t have time to dally. I’m due for lunch in one hour with Donovan Treesprite—”

Who? “That can’t really be his name. Is he Navajo?”

“He’s Jewish. He’s…had a transgression or something. You have five minutes. This is
serious
.”

He disconnected, and I cut a cab off as I approached the pink light, sailing through the intersection at thirty miles per hour. I was four blocks away. Traffic grew heavier and pedestrians wandered the sidewalks happy to be free on this beautiful spring midday. On the corner, coming out of Denali’s Deli, holding a sack of chips and slushie, was…was that Brandon? I did a double take. He had on a pair of jeans, a green Kermit the Frog T-shirt and a yellow cap. He was also tomato red—like Shep, only brighter. I yanked the wheel hard and parked in the bus stop. Brandon had a phone to his ear, his head cocked, and he appeared almost flash burned. He recognized the Posh Nosh van immediately and headed over. What should I do? I couldn’t…accost the man on the street corner. Time was ticking down. I had four minutes to get to the gallery before Peter realized I’d ditched. Brandon peeked into the window of the truck curiously—hell, a lot of people were looking. He smiled when he saw me and nodded.

“Hey, buddy. You gotta move that truck. This ain’t no parking space, asshole.” There was a bang on the back door as someone whacked the vehicle with a fist. I put the truck into gear and made the universal sign of “hop in” to Brandon. His eyes widened and he nodded, climbing into the passenger seat.

“Hey, Caesar.” Brandon smiled. “Good gig last night.”

“Need a lift?” He wasn’t just red; he was sort of slimy. I couldn’t stop myself from blurting, “What the hell happened to your face? You were fine at eleven thirty last night.”

“I had a procedure this morning. I just finished. I’m not getting any younger you know. I had a peel.”

“A peel? Good lord. Why?” We jerked forward as I ground the transmission. I hated driving stick.

“To remove fine lines and wrinkles.” Brandon rolled the window down and leaned his arm against the edge. His cap kept his hair from sticking to the Vaseline on his face. He was like a big puppy taking a drive. He chomped down on an apple chip and offered me one. “Why do you have Poppy’s truck?”

“Oh. I’m borrowing it. She’s away for the weekend.”

“So what up, my brotha?” He laughed and flipped on the radio. I’d known Brandon for about a year and he was trustworthy, self-centered, liked to bang a lot of women, and was an extremely hardworking bartender. Like most of Poppy’s employees, he was fast running out of modeling jobs and had to work like a dog to keep the cushy home he’d bought during his peak. Once upon a time, Brandon Wakefield had graced the cover of every romance book in the rack. He’d been Mr. Romance two years running. Then? He’d sold toothpaste and aftershave. Now? He was showing wear and mixing drinks five nights a week.

I cracked a smile. “Did you leave with Poppy last night?”

“Yeah, right after we broke everything down. Jerry and Andre and I stayed to clean. We all left about midnight. Why?”

“Just wondering. Someone lost a…” What? How the hell was I supposed to ask this? “…a watch. And I’m wondering who was around and…hey, you didn’t find anything or see anyone take anything, did you?”

He smacked his lips on a chip. “Nope. Found a lot of empty glasses and olives on the floor. Saw a lot of beer bellies naked. Got turned down by my sure thing. That’s about it. How’s your throat?”

“Good. Your face looks bad. Shouldn’t you be under sedation or something?” It was really hard to look at. I kept my eye on the road.

“Nah. This is my third medium-level peel. I’ve got a few more to go. They’re a snap. You should get one, you look tired. Take ten years off.”

“I’m twenty-eight, Brandon. I don’t want to look underage.”

“Sure you do. Don’t guys dig that kind of thing? I can give you my doc’s card.” He lifted his lean ass off the seat and dug a business card from the back pocket of his Levi’s. “Dr. Bronner. He’s good. He does my Botox.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.” I threw the card on the dash. “So nothing out of the ordinary last night?”

Brandon took a moment to sip his slushie. “Other than Rachel hitting on Peter? No.”

“Surely that wasn’t unusual.”

“Not really, but he’s…ancient. I bet he can’t even get it up. Oh. Shep being there, that was a surprise, yeah? He always looks good. For now. Hey, you can let me off here, right?”

“Do me a favor. If any of the other wait staff calls you and they’ve found a watch…or anything at all…could you let me know? Actually, could you have them call me directly?”

I pulled to the curb a block from the subway entrance, stopping traffic. Time was of the essence. Brandon hopped out, his face blazing in the sunshine. He tugged his cap lower. “Must be a nice watch,” was all he said, and he shut the door.

I sped down the block and zipped into the alley, passing the two homeless men from earlier. Joseph had a piece of aluminum foil tucked into the neck of his shirt, trying to sun himself. I cut the engine and locked the doors. My phone rang as I hit the steps running. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I punched the alarm code and raced up the stairs, gasping, “Peter.”

“You were supposed to call me back. Are you upstairs yet?”

“I had to take a pit stop. It’s been very brisk here…with foot traffic. Lots of people must have heard about the party. It’s very busy.” I cringed as lie after lie poured out of my mouth. “Uhm. I haven’t read the papers yet, did you see anything?”

“No. I’m in New Mexico.”

Panting for breath on the second-floor landing, I twisted Peter’s office door and— “Why’s your door unlocked?”

He was quiet while I slipped inside. “I must have forgotten to lock it,” he said stiffly. “Tell me when you’re all the way upstairs.”

“Sure.” The office was bright since he’d also left the blinds wide open. The room was a pretentious, elegantly appointed place, as it should be. Original artwork hung on the walls—Peter’s love of geometric abstraction and depth of color was evident in his workspace. These paintings were wild, bright and whimsical. Otherwise, the office was lean and spare and almost Swedish in its modernism. Sort of like Ikea, only far more expensive. Everything on the desk was shoved to one side, and a used condom lay forgotten on the Persian rug. Not at all like the fastidious Peter Stuhlmann. “It’s very…messy in your office, Peter. Were you in here last night?”

“Yes, of course.” He offered no other information, but the pungent tang of sex and gin and…some kind of stale fruit permeated the office. The fruit? Had to be cherry-flavored lube or condoms. Nasty things. Poor Rachel.

But I’d die before I picked up that condom.

“Okay. I’ll call the cleaning service. I’m going in.” I slid the key into the lock and stepped into the secret stairwell. It was dusty and private. Windows met the landing, allowing daylight to brighten the faded plaster. Directly below me, the new kitchen exited into the alley where the stairwell, once upon a time, had ended. That had been long ago when immigrant servants ran these floors carrying freshly pressed linens and tea on delicate trays. Not much different from my own job, actually.