Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (7 page)

The stair treads were scuffed, worn oak, the railing a deep walnut made smooth over the years by the chapped hands of domestics. I grabbed the rail and took the narrow set of steps two at a time to the next landing. Another large window let yellow light flood in. As the stairs twisted to the fourth floor landing, it grew dark, the air stale. Behind me illuminated dust motes floated lazily, but the locked entrance to Peter’s secret lair waited in shadow. I was suddenly unnerved in the empty building—and sharply aware that in my haste, I may have forgotten to close the back door.

“Where are you?” Peter’s voice boomed into my ear.

I jumped. “I’m just now at the door. Hang on.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess that you weren’t in the gallery at all. I think you’re in the Starbucks getting a caramel macchiato.”

“Too many calories, I’m trying to stay fit.” The bear claw had been more than enough. I scratched McDonald’s off my list and thought happy thoughts about salad and another hour on the elliptical.

“It’s a good goal. One can’t be too careful. Look at that young lady last night—she’s going to be plump.”

“Rachel? She’s a stacked little Betty. She’d look unhealthy if she were thinner.”

“Oh, I was referring to your friend Poppy.”

That startled a laugh right out of me. “You’re crazy. Okay, I’m in. The door wasn’t locked. I’m seeing a pattern here. What do you need?” I flipped the switch. The studio was in actuality his old apartment. He’d lived here during his younger years, before the trust fund had matured and he’d collected his fat paycheck. Each room housed different items from his ever-growing collection. Bizarre sculpture and large canvases he’d hoped would eventually become important. Many of these were boxed and stored, the climate controlled at a constant sixty-eight degrees.

“Go to the front room.”

I’d never seen the front room. Nervously, I crept down the length of the central hallway toward the front door. I was freaking myself out. It was so deathly still up here, even with the huge windows gleaming midday sun, it was eerie. I passed the narrow galley kitchen and its adjoining dining room to my left, both filled with neatly organized boxes. There was a large room with a tiny brick fireplace to my right—the study. Built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves with locked glass cases were filled with orderly rows of rare books, another hobby of Peter’s. Slipcovers draped the furnishings, and the floors were bare. The good rugs had been moved downstairs to carpet the gallery. Farther along the hall were a bathroom and two bedrooms. Compared to the hamster cage I’d rented that first year out of college, this place was a palace.

“Hey, the door is open.” Why was I whispering? If anything, that made me more apprehensive.

“I was up there last night, during the party. I…took a friend on a tour. I think…someone followed me, or watched me. Maybe took the key.”

“Are you kidding me?” Great. A lunatic could be hiding in the apartment and Peter had sent me with no weapon or backup or forewarning to his secret sex room. I felt like an indentured servant, and indignation threatened to choke me.

“Just go in for me. I need you to check the closet.”

Jesus. It just got worse and worse. I touched the door, which naturally creaked in a high-pitched shriek that reverberated down the lonely corridor. I was sweating full out in my cashmere. I blotted my forehead with my sleeve. I was going to have to dry clean this sucker on Monday because I’d been sweating for two hours solid.

I pushed the door and walked in, only to rear back in horror. What the hell? “
Oh my God.
Peter!”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

It was terrible. I looked around madly, trying to take it all in at once. Everywhere—on every surface—the room was filled with…clowns. Knickknacks and kitsch snow globes, little music boxes with cleverly posed harlequins, ghastly porcelain figurines dressed in purple taffeta and red velvet. It seemed to all come from QVC. Garishly painted, a huge wood-crafted unicorn reared on its back legs by the window. Its hooves were varnished carnation pink. Here I was expecting a leather room or a sex slave chained to a post, but no—this was worse. Far worse.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said again grimly. “I have been collecting since I was a boy.”

“You paid for this crap?”

“Not…exactly.”

“These are disgusting.”

Over the simple wrought-iron bed hung a painting of Red Skelton’s sad face. It was a gruesome thing of my worst nightmares.

“I know. I can’t explain. It’s a compulsion that seizes me and I…take them. Just ignore all that and go to the closet.”

The white-faced painting watched me with forlorn eyes. I shuddered and opened the closet. “Just more clown shit, Peter, and a couple books. I’m so disappointed in you.”

“I’m sure you have your own secrets. There’s nothing else? You’re sure?”

“A couple yearbooks—uh—Exeter nineteen sixty-eight, sixty-nine, sixty-seven. There’s a book of poetry by Robert Louis Stevenson—someone took a crayon to it. That’s everything.”

Silence. “Anything on the floor?”

I checked. “Nothing but dust bunnies.”

“Someone robbed us last night,” he said with conviction.

Finally, we were getting somewhere. “Well, the alarm was off. Although how anyone could have known to go up here…”

“I was distracted for some time, and I’d been to the fifth floor earlier.”

Who could have come up? Shep? Rachel? The waiters? Jean? Actually, there were many possibilities. Anyone could have wandered in and gone unnoticed. Obviously Peter hadn’t checked the building before he left. JT could have gone missing during the cleanup, as well as whatever carnival trinket Peter had lost.

“So…do you think anything else could have been stolen? Like one of the busts?”

“No. Frankly, I’d rather that had happened. At least they’re insured.”

It wasn’t that easy. “We should call the police.”

“No! No, no, no…let’s not be hasty, Caesar. We can’t have any blemish on the reputation of the gallery, and if it’s let known that I didn’t set the security system, the gallery would be in trouble.”

Which was exactly what I’d thought.

He went on, “Someone from the party took something that belonged to me and is threatening to expose my secret.”

I looked around the room. I didn’t think it was any secret that Peter had questionable taste, but I held my tongue. “What was it? One of the busts?” I asked casually.

“Please attend. Why would I have you upstairs for that? And if a bust were missing, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we? I bet I could cobble one of those hatchet jobs together in a half hour. This is
serious
.”

Well that certainly put things into perspective for me. “Because one of the goddamn busts is missing.”

He sputtered, “What? Why…? What are you…? Why the hell didn’t you say so to begin with?”

“I was trying to. I knew you wouldn’t want me to do anything until we spoke. I think we need to call the police.”

“Police?” he squawked. “Does Jean Luc know?”

“No. But we need to address this. I think someone was here late and took it. Mallory says she needs it immediately. I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

“Don’t do anything. If it’s the same person who took my…item…they want money. Just wait until you hear back from me. I’ll speak with Jean, and you see what you can find there. Wait for me and don’t let anyone in the gallery. You hear me, Caesar? I’ll call you back. I need to think. I have to go meet with this Treefucker guy.” He clicked off rudely, and I was alone in a roomful of clowns. Story of my life, really.

I locked the door and took the two flights of stairs at a clip, the day warm and all this exercise making me dizzy. I needed to eat something. I passed through Peter’s office, which smelled like a lost night in Bangkok. I didn’t look at the floor, just put the useless key in its hiding place and left.

Peter had barely reacted to the loss of the bust, which was pretty damn strange.

Something clattered on the back step. I cocked my ear to listen. Goddamn it. What now?

I crept down the stairs only to find the kitchen door closed and the front door shut tight and locked. The alarm was off, this time entirely my own fault, and on the fragile hall table next to the men’s room was an ear. Justin Timberlake’s ear. I stared dumbfounded. Had it been there earlier?

I slammed into the kitchen and yanked the back door open, nearly falling down the steps. Outside, the milk truck blocked the alley. The road was clear in either direction. Joseph sat on his pallet, tinfoil still tucked under his chin. His lids were shut, and I knew he was sleeping off the Uncle Tino free-gin binge. “Joseph.”

I tapped his foot with the toe of my shoe. Nothing. I gave a start as Captain came around the side of the truck, zipping his pants. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Call of nature.”

I ran to the side of Poppy’s truck and nearly stepped in a puddle. “You pissed on the truck.”

“Nah. Well, maybe a little. We had us some of deh gin dat was in deh dumpster,” he said as if that excused him.

“You can’t piss back here.”

“Sure I can. Do it all de time.”

I swallowed my revulsion. “Did you see anyone go in the back door? Just now?”

“Just you. You almost ran over my gud boots.”

We both glanced down. His left shoe was stained with something wet. I stepped back, wondering if hepatitis could be airborne. “Look. If you guys are camped out here, could you…keep an eye on that back door? I’ll give you…what do you like? Cannoli?”

“I like money. I also like scotch.”

“No. I have cannoli. Have you ever had Rocco’s?”

He swayed on his feet. “Dat sounds good. We’re here. No one sees us. I’ll write it all down.”

I doubted that, but if they paid attention, maybe they’d be helpful.

My nana isn’t Italian. Just in case you’re wondering. My brother inherited her Anglo looks and my father’s Italian temperament, diction, vocation and wild hand gestures. I may appear to be a carbon copy of my old man thirty years ago, and be prone to gesturing, but I take after my mother’s side of the family—The Coopers. New Yorkers for four generations, my grandfather was a mid-level accountant for thirty-eight years. After her husband died, Nana let loose. She quit smoking, took up Pilates and went yearly on a singles cruise to Cozumel. She enjoys a Cosmopolitan at five o’clock every night. She’s seventy-six years old, and she’s perfectly preserved. May Cooper looks a little like Carol Channing, but she acts a lot like Shirley MacLaine.

As part of her senior group, Nana dragged my brother and I to every show on Broadway—my mother to this day credits Saturday matinees with Nana and the ladies as the key to my homosexuality and my disastrous affair with “that actor”. Paulie seems unaffected. My grandmother is far too interested in my personal business and regards my homosexuality as a dessert topping. I love her, but I need to be free.

I got back to the house at three thirty with Poppy’s Rolodex, some leftover cake for Nana, and a cheeseburger Happy Meal—which was all I could afford. My plan was to call everyone from last night. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table dipping my fries in ketchup, checking my email and examining the ear. I supposed we could rebuild Justin Timberlake. Peter said it could be done—how hard could it be?

Nana swept into the kitchen wearing a piped navy travel suit and a necklace of white balls the size of gumdrops. Her bracelet and earrings matched. She hustled over to see what I was doing. “That’s an ear.”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?”

“Working.” Best to keep some things from Nana. “I brought you some of Poppy’s special cake.”

“Is it the raspberry cake with the chocolate ganache?”

“It is.”

“Oh, that girl can cook.” Nana’s bracelet clattered, and the cat came running hoping for another meal. Bella purred, the little whale, but Nana ignored her. White hair coated her shin. “We need to go to the store, pumpkin. I need you to carry my bags. I think I may have strained my groin at Pilates this morning.”

“You’re fine, Nan. You say that every week.”

“We’ll stop at Rocco’s for dinner. Ellie said she hasn’t seen you all week.”

Ellie is my mother—also not much of a Romano, although she made an effort. Rocco Romano is my father and his Italian eatery, nestled in the old neighborhood, was the family cash cow.

“Can it wait?” This thing was so peculiar, the way it was put together. It was extremely complex. “Nana, can I borrow your tweezers? Mine are downstairs.”

She lifted a bleached brow and pursed her lips. “Sure thing.” Still ignoring the cat, she went to retrieve her tweezers for me.

I checked my mail while I had the computer running. I had thirty-four emails regarding the party. I began to sift through them. Most of them said thank you or were forwarding a review. I skipped those for now. There were a few photos of Jean, Peter, one of me looking damn fine in my new blazer, and one of the crowd, many of whom were shirtless. Mallory and the detective were side by side at the bar, fully attired. They had the same color hair.

Nana interrupted, handing me tweezers. “Did you ever see the movie
Blue Velvet
, pumpkin? That ear reminds me of Dennis Hopper.”

“It reminds me of Van Gogh.”

“Or that Getty boy. They held him ransom and sent his ear. It was ghastly. And so public.”

I stared at Nana, who as usual was right on the money. “Do you have a shopping list? I could go for you.”

“I need things that have nothing to do with you, sunshine. Lady products. I don’t want to tip my hand and reveal any beauty secrets. I just need you to look buff and pull the Winnie Wagon.”

I sighed and studied the ear. It was made of interwoven chinks from a silver-plated watchband; they were adhered to some kind of fabric. “What do you think this is?” I turned it over. The bottom was stretchy and shiny.

“Umbrella fabric. It’s Burberry.”

“What? How can you know that? Like, within two seconds?”

“I have that umbrella. Well, the knock off from Canal Street. See the color and the cross-section? It’s small—but it’s Burberry. That really makes a statement, doesn’t it? That someone would cut a two hundred dollar umbrella. Very wasteful.”