JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home (36 page)

Gerber was quiet again and I worried that I’d angered him, but when he spoke his voice was soft.

“After the business with the fax and the pictures, things went quiet. A week, a month, two months go by and nothing happens, and I’m thinking it’s finally over. And then …” Gerber coughed softly a few times and took a deep breath. “Then one night I come home and my dog— his name was Murrow— is gone. He was a fat old Lab, arthritic and deaf and half blind, who’d sleep all day in the back yard. He barely got himself up to take a leak anymore, and on his best day he couldn’t have jumped my fence, any more than he could’ve opened the gate by himself. But he was gone.

“I called the cops, and ten minutes later a prowl car came to my house. They took me up the ridge to the edge of a ravine, and … down below was Murrow.” He paused again and sniffed. “A jogger had phoned it in just an hour before, and she was all freaked out. And why not? I mean, how often do you see a headless dog?”

Gerber sighed heavily. Neary looked at me and shook his head.

“The cops told me it was probably local kids. They said they’d had problems with pet killings in some neighborhoods on the other side of the canyon, and this was probably the same thing. They said they’d be working it, but they didn’t sound hopeful.”

“What did you think?” I asked.

“Not much of anything, just then. I was … I was pretty much in shock. But afterward … I knew.”

“What happened?”

“About a month later, I was having lunch with a friend of mine at a place in Santa Monica and the waiter comes over and tells me I have a call on their pay phone. I pick it up, and on the other end is Pflug. He tells me he’s calling to say how sorry he was to hear about my dog, and isn’t it terrible about kids today, and what’s wrong with our cities anyway? And then he laughs like a maniac, and says I can change my underwear now because he’s done with me. And then he hangs up.”

“Was he done?” Neary asked.

“Nothing else happened— except I didn’t get a decent night’s sleep for about a year afterward.”

“You go to the cops about it?” I said.

“And say what? I had no proof of anything, and by then I knew Pflug didn’t leave a trail.” Gerber was quiet for some time, and then he found his voice and his bitter laugh again. “So that’s how I know Pflug is good at his work. That’s my cautionary tale. Any other questions?”

Neary and I looked at each other. We were out of questions, and we told Gerber so and thanked him for his time.

“I can’t say it was a pleasure, but if it serves to screw up Pflug a little, I’m glad to do it. Any chance you guys want to tell me a little more about what’s going on?”

Neary smiled. “Sorry, George, but in the words of a fine journalist I know: no fucking way.”

Gerber laughed. “Then I wish you luck— and if you get the chance, give that bastard a kick in the nuts for me … and give him one for Murrow too.”

Gerber hung up and Neary rubbed his eyes. “Hell of a guy, this Pflug,” he said. “Maybe I won’t let him work on my résumé.” I nodded. “Those pictures— of Jane and your nephews— from what Gerber said, they seem to be right up his alley.”

“It seems so.”

Neary looked at me. “Chances are, he won’t tell us shit about who his client is.”

“Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to the discussion.”

25

Neary said he would work on a meet with Pflug, and I didn’t object. Chances were, Pflug would be more receptive to his approach than to mine, and I knew Neary didn’t entirely trust me to manage it without bloodshed anyway. I took a subway uptown, and the ride to Union Square was filled with the memory of those photographs, the look on Jane’s face as the elevator doors slid shut, and the choked sound of George L. Gerber’s voice. By the time I got home, my head was aching and my teeth were clenched.

The only things new at my place were the phone messages. One was from Lauren.

“It’s me again. Will you please just give me a call?” No. The next one was from Paul Gargosian. His gravelly voice was full of amusement.

“This is one hell of a game of phone tag we got going. Call me back or stop by the building if you want. I’m pulling double shifts the next two days.”

And that was all; there was nothing from Jane or anyone else. I looked around my apartment, at the dust motes and the empty space, and thought about the prospect of waiting there for Neary’s call. I decided to take Gargosian up on his invitation.

A couple of weeks in Florida had left Paul Gargosian deeply tanned, and his teeth were very bright when he smiled. He was fifty-something, and broad-shouldered, and his black hair was dense and curly and dusted with gray. His thick nose was starting to peel. It could’ve been the lingering effects of vacation that made him seem so relaxed and affable, but somehow— from the spray of laugh lines around his eyes and the timbre of his voice— I suspected he was always that way.

“I wasn’t sure you were for real,” he said, smiling. His hands were wide and calloused, and his handshake was strong. “I figured maybe you were just a recording.”

“Some days I think the same thing,” I said. “You have time to talk now?”

“Sure,” he said. He held the door and ushered me into the lobby and over to the concierge station. “What’s so important you had to call a dozen times?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Gregory Danes,” I said. His eyebrows went up. I lied a little and told him I was working for Danes’s ex, who hadn’t heard from him since he’d left weeks before, and who was getting worried. “The guy filling in for you— Christopher— said you knew most of the tenants.”

At the mention of Christopher’s name, Gargosian rolled his eyes. “A recommendation from Chrissy— there’s a career highlight.”

“You know anything about where Danes is?”

Gargosian shook his head. “The last time I saw him was, I guess, the morning he left. It was early, and I brought his bags down and held them here while he went for his car. Then I loaded him up and he drove away. I haven’t seen him since.”

“No mention of where he was headed or when he’d be back?”

Gargosian grimaced a little. “He’s not real talkative— not to the guys who work here, anyway. He said he was going away for a while— that’s what he said, a while— and he was having his mail held. That was it.”

“Has he ever gone away this long before?”

“He’s been away two, three weeks at a time before— maybe a little longer— but not like this.”

“He have a lot of luggage that morning?”

“A couple of bags, a briefcase— no problem fitting ’em in the trunk.”

“And he was alone?”

Gargosian’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Yep.”

“Was he usually?”

“What’s that mean?” His voice was fractionally less friendly.

“It means, did he have a lot of visitors? A lot of houseguests? Girlfriends, boyfriends— that sort of thing?”

Gargosian’s voice chilled by another few degrees. “What is this, anyway? Are you looking for a missing guy or is this some kind of divorce thing?”

“It’s not a divorce thing,” I said. “I don’t care what Danes does or who he does it with, I’m just trying to find the guy.”

Gargosian nodded slowly and relaxed a little. “It’s just that I went through a fucking evil time with my own ex, so I’m a little touchy. I don’t want to go telling tales.”

“Sure,” I said, and kept looking at him.

“He didn’t have a lot of visitors. His kid was probably the most regular; he’d come by every few weeks or so.”

“No girlfriends?”

“Not lately.”

“How about before lately?” Gargosian hesitated, and I helped him out. “How about a pretty blonde who’s shorter than she looks on TV?”

He looked relieved. “What do you need me for? You seem to know it all already.”

“Confirmation helps,” I said. “Anybody besides Sovitch?”

“No, just her. But for a while now, not even her.”

“How long a while?”

He shrugged. “It’s got to be six months at least.”

“She was a pretty regular visitor before then?”

“It was kind of tapering off, I think. But for a while there it was two or three nights a week.” Gargosian’s eyes shifted to the doors and he loped across the lobby and held them for an attractive blond woman pushing a baby carriage. He walked them to the elevators and came back to the concierge station.

“Danes have many friends in the building— anybody he might’ve told where he was going?” I asked.

Gargosian shook his head. “He’s not a real sociable guy.”

“According to his son, he’s got at least one friend in the building— someone he goes to hear music with.”

Gargosian thought for a moment and began to nod. “He had one friend, more like: the old fellow, Mr. Cortese— Joseph— and a nicer guy you’ll never meet. Hell of a sad thing when he passed. He was a real music buff, and friendly with Danes. They went to concerts together and stuff.”

“White-haired guy— mostly bald on top— with a narrow face and hollow cheeks?” I asked. He nodded. “When did he pass away?”

“Last year, right around Thanksgiving. Bad heart.”

“He live alone?”

“All alone. The missus was long gone.”

A FedEx truck double-parked in front of the building. The driver waved at Gargosian and started stacking boxes on a hand truck. Gargosian waved back.

“I got to get the service door,” he said, and went out to the street.

I leaned on the marble counter and thought about Danes and his late friend. Now I had a name to go with the face in the photos— Joseph Cortese— but I wasn’t sure what that led to besides another dead end. My head was aching again and I was tired, and I wondered how Neary was faring in tracking down Pflug. I pressed my fingers to my temples but it didn’t help. Gargosian returned and I hauled my thoughts back to Danes and Cortese.

“You said they went to concerts together.” Gargosian nodded. “Here in the city?”

“Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, up at St. John’s— the old guy talked about it all the time. And in the warm weather he’d go someplace up in Westchester. And he went to the mountains, too— the Berkshires. He had a house up there, and he’d go for big chunks of the summer. Danes went with him now and then.”

“You know if Cortese had family? Anyone he was close to?”

Gargosian tilted his head a little. “We’re getting kind of far from Danes, aren’t we?”

“I’m looking for someone to talk to about this place in the Berkshires.”

“The old guy had a nephew, but I don’t know how close they were. He’d come around sometimes; he still does.”

“Cortese’s apartment hasn’t been sold?”

“The nephew owns it now. Like I said, he comes by once in a while.”

“Any idea where he lives?” Gargosian shook his head. “How about a name?”

“Don’t know his first name, but his last name’s Cortese.”

I pulled a card from my pocket. “Can I leave this for him, for the next time he comes in?” Gargosian looked skeptical but took the card. “What about neighbors?” I asked. “Does Danes get along with his?”

Gargosian looked puzzled for a second. “I didn’t explain it right, did I? Mr. Cortese was in apartment Twenty-C; he was Danes’s neighbor, pretty much the only one. The other two units up there are owned by a corporation, and they’re empty most of the time.”

I thought about that for a while, and about the disheveled-looking man I’d seen coming off the elevator and going into 20-C, the day I’d creeped Danes’s apartment. “What does the nephew look like?” I asked.

Gargosian thought for a moment. “A very big guy, not young … balding, with some dark hair around the sides … a big face … glasses. Kind of … messy.” That was him. Gargosian looked at his watch. “If there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get to the mail.”

I nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

“Hope I was worth the wait,” he said, and held the door for me.

I hailed a cab on Lex and rolled the window down. We pulled away from the curb and a diesel wind rushed in at me. I thought about what Paul Gargosian had told me. Joseph Cortese seemed to be the closest thing to an actual friend of Danes that I’d come across so far. Except that I hadn’t really come across him, as he’d been dead for going on six months.

That six-month period couldn’t have been a pleasant one for Gregory Danes. Cortese died; Sovitch stopped coming around; a custody battle erupted with Nina Sachs; and Turpin had shown up at Pace-Loyette with a mandate to settle the claims that Danes wanted to fight. Not an easy time. Who could blame the guy for going away? Who could blame him for not coming back? I thought about how I might find Cortese’s nephew, but I was tired and my mind kept wandering to Neary and Pflug.

The phone was ringing as I came through the door. It was Neary.

“I found him,” he said.

“Where?”

“Here, in town.”

“Is he willing to meet?”

“He said he’d be more than happy to. He even invited us to his rented conference room.”

“When?”

“Six o’clock this evening,” Neary said. I wrote down the address.

“Doesn’t sound like it was too hard to get hold of him.”

“I just called the numbers on his Web site.”

“Was he surprised to hear from you?” I asked.

“Not even a little.”

I met Neary in front of an undistinguished glass box on Park Avenue and 38th Street. We signed in and rode up together in silence. The company that provided Pflug with his New York address occupied the entire twelfth floor. The reception area was windowless and softly lit. The magazines were plentiful but out-of-date and the plump furniture was slightly shabby, and it looked like the business-class lounge of a failing airline. But for two receptionists preparing to leave, the room was empty.

They were making final adjustments to hair and makeup when we came in, and they eyed us warily. The short redhead with the diamond chip in her nose buzzed Pflug and led us to a conference room.

“It’ll be just a minute,” she said, and left us alone.

I sat in a scuffed leather chair at the long scuffed conference table and took a few slow breaths to bring my heart rate down. I looked out the window at the dim view of 38th Street. Neary sat across from me.

“I should do the talking,” he said.