Dirt

Chapter 38

Stone was working at his desk when he heard the street door open, and a moment later Bob Cantor walked into his office carrying two garbage bags.

“Never say I didn’t give you anything,” Cantor said, dropping the two bags on the floor and depositing a manila envelope on Stone’s desk. “Dryer jumped his lease and moved out of the apartment last weekend.” He grinned. “Nice place; I rented it.”

“Did he leave anything in the apartment?” Stone asked.

Cantor pointed at the garbage bags. “If he did, it’s in there. His phone bills are in the envelope; the landlord says he made a lot of long distance calls.” He pulled up a chair.

Stone opened the envelope and shook out the phone bills.

“The phone was in the landlord’s name; last four digits are 1232.”

Stone began going through the bills. “L.A., L.A., L.A. Jesus, he lived there for what…?”

“Eight months.”

“And he never called anywhere but L.A.? Hard to believe.”

“Yeah.”

“And only one number,” Stone said. He turned to his computer, inserted a CD-ROM, and brought up his national telephone directory. He typed in the L.A. phone number and waited while the computer searched. “Here we go,” he said, “the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, in West Hollywood. When did you say that Dryer moved out?”

“Sometime between last Friday and Wednesday.”

“Look, he’s called this number virtually every day, sometimes three or four times a day.”

Stone picked up the phone and dialed the L.A. number.

“Santa Fe,” a man’s voice said.

“Hello,” Stone said, “this is Detective Cantor of the New York City Police Department.”

“Thanks a lot,” Cantor whispered.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a regular apartment building there, or what?”

“Short-term furnished apartments, by the week or month.”

“I’m trying to reach someone who may have moved out last Wednesday or Thursday; could you check your records and tell me who that might be? I don’t have a name.”

“Don’t need a name,” the man said. The sound of pages turning came over the phone “Only one person has moved out in the past couple of weeks. We stay pretty full.”

“Who would that be?”

“A Mr. G. Gable.”

“Can you tell me what he looks like?”

“Early thirties, dirty blond hair, kinda long, fairly tall. Nice-looking guy.”

“Have you got a forwarding address?”

“Nope, nothing. You looking for this guy or something?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, if you find him, will you let me know? He owes a month’s rent. He left here by the back way, very early in the morning.”

“Has his place been cleaned out?”

“Oh, yeah; I rented it right away. We always have a waiting list.”

“Thanks very much; I appreciate your help.” He hung up and turned to Cantor. “He was using the name of G. Gable.”

“And we’re looking for G. Power. It’s gotta be our guy.”

“Right. Let’s see what his trash looks like.” Stone cleared off his desk and, a handful at a time, they began going through all the paper.

“Okay,” Cantor said, “we got a lot of very real trash – newspapers, magazines.”

“Vanity Fair, New York, People, Us. He seems to be celebrity-oriented.”

“Here’s a receipt from Saks, from the Armani shop,” Cantor said. “He paid cash. The landlord said he paid his rent in cash, too.”

“What’s the date of the receipt?”

“Let’s see, nearly a month ago.”

“He would have already picked it up after the alterations, then. Too bad.”

“More receipts; one from a limo service; here’s one from the Four Seasons – Jesus, nearly three hundred bucks for dinner!”

“He’s living well, isn’t he? And he doesn’t seem to use credit cards or write checks for things that most people would. I wonder where he’s getting all this cash?”

“I don’t see any old bank statements in all this stuff,” Cantor said, dropping another double handful onto the desktop. “Look at this, another limo receipt, more clothes – Alan Flusser, this time, who’s that?”

“High-end tailor and ready-made clothes.”

“Here’s one from Ferragamo for six hundred and change.”

“That’s two pair of shoes.”

“Every one of them is marked cash. Oh, he told the landlord he was a filmmaker. Where does a filmmaker get this much cash? A bookie doesn’t have this much cash!”

Stone had a thought; he called Dino.

“Yeah, Bacchetti,” Dino said.

“It’s Stone.”

“Hey, you must be making Bob Cantor rich. I got a call from somebody who wanted a reference for renting an apartment up here somewhere.”

“Yeah, he’s moving up in the world. Listen, Dino, have you had any burglaries reported recently where just about the only thing taken was cash?”

“Burglaries? How the fuck would I know; I don’t mess with that kind of shit.”

“Yeah, but your guys do. Would you talk to somebody on the burglary detail and ask about it”

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Thanks, friend.” He hung up.

“What makes you think he’s doing burglaries?” Cantor asked.

“Just a hunch. Whoever burgled Arrington’s place took only cash; the guy who hit me over the head took cash – and my Rolex. Whoever capped Arnie Millman in the alley outside Dryer’s – pardon me, your apartment – took cash.”

“You think all of those are the same guy, then?”

“Maybe. Maybe two guys.”

“Two? One of ’em’s Power, then?”

“One of my clients was being followed by a guy who looked like Dryer, but she said wasn’t Dryer, judging from the photograph, and yet they fit the same description. I got a tip that a guy from L.A. who might be behind the DIRT thing fits the description. Now we’ve got Dryer repeatedly calling a guy in L.A. who fits the description, and who left L.A. recently. Maybe he’s in New York now.”

“Brothers?”

“Could be.”

The phone rang.

“It’s Dino. What do you know about these burglaries?”

“What burglaries, Dino?”

“The burglaries you called me about.”

“I called to ask you about burglaries. You find some?”

“Eight in the Nineteenth where only cash was taken, or cash and men’s’ jewelry, watches, that kind of stuff, all of them in high-end buildings. What do you know about this?”

“I’m just chasing a wild hunch. Find a copy of Vanity Fair, the new issue, and look for an ad for Spirit men’s cologne. There’s a guy’s picture in it; he’s been calling himself Jonathan Dryer. Get one of your burglary detail to show it to the eight victims and see if anybody recognizes him. If they do, I’d love to have a name and address.”

“Why do you think this guy’s connected to these burglaries?”

“Because I think he went into Arrington’s place and took cash, and he may have been the guy who did me, who also took cash. He’s an old boyfriend of Arrington’s.”

“Well, she must know where to find him.”

“He moved out and didn’t leave a forwarding address, and get this: He lived in the apartment next to the alley where Arnie Millman bought it. Interesting?”

“Very.”

“One of your guys must have interviewed him that night. When I went around there he said he’d been talking to the cops. Will you find out who it was and what notes he took?”

“I’ll do that.”

“And I’d like to hear about it.”

“You will.” Dino hung up.

“Bob, you call the cologne manufacturer, and see if you can track down Dryer through his modeling agency.”

“Okay, Stone; sounds like you’re putting something together here,” Cantor said.

“Maybe,” Stone said. “We’ll see.”

“I forget,” Cantor said, “did I mention that Dryer had a hotshot computer, a laser printer, and a fax machine? Maybe this is DIRT?”

“Maybe paydirt,” Stone said.