Brimstone

{ 10 }

Nigel Cutforth, sitting in his Bauhaus-style breakfast nook1,052 feet above Fifth Avenue, lowered the latest issue of Billboard and sniffed the air. What was it with the ventilation in his apartment these past few days? This was the third time that sulfurous stink had come up into his apartment. Twice those yahoos from building maintenance had come up, and twice they'd found nothing.

Cutforth slapped down the paper. "Eliza!"

Eliza was Cutforth's second wife-he'd finally dumped the old bag who had worn herself out bearing him children and found something fresher-and there she stood in the doorway, in her exercise tights, brushing her long blonde hair with her head tilted to one side. Cutforth could hear the crackle of static.

"There's that smell again," he said.

"I've got a nose, too," she said, swinging one mass of hair back and pulling another forward.

There was a time not so long before when Cutforth liked watching her mess with her hair. Now it was beginning to get on his nerves. She wasted half an hour a day on it, at least.

As she continued brushing, Cutforth felt his irritation rise. "I paid five and a half mil for this apartment, and it smells like a goddamn science experiment. Why don't you call maintenance?"

"The phone's right there, next to your elbow."

Cutforth didn't care for the tone she was taking with him.

She swung the last part of her hair back, shook it out, straightened. "I've got my spin workout in fifteen minutes. I'm already late."

With that, she vanished from the doorway. Cutforth could hear her banging the hall closet, getting on her tennis shoes. A moment later there was the hum of the elevator in the hall beyond, and she was gone.

He stared at the closed door, trying to remind himself that he'd wanted something fresher; that he'd gotten something fresher. Too fucking fresh, in fact.

He sniffed again. If anything, the smell was worse. It would be a bitch getting maintenance up here a third time. Building management was useless; they did something only if you yelled loud enough. But there were only two apartments on this floor-the other had been purchased but not yet occupied-and nobody on the other floors had seemed to smell anything. So Cutforth was the only one yelling.

He stood up, feeling a prickle of disquiet. Grove had complained of a bad smell in that bizarre call of his-that, and about a hundred other strange things. He shook his head, trying to clear the clouds of apprehension that were slowly gathering. He was letting that old pillow-biter and his crazy worries get to him.

Was it coming from the vents? He moved around, testing the air. It was stronger in the living room, even stronger in the library. He followed it to the door of the control room, sniffing like a dog. Stronger, ever stronger. He unlocked the door, entered the room, flicked on the light, and looked around. There was his beautiful 64-channel Studer, his RAID-striped hard disk recording system, and his racks of audio processing gear. On the far wall were several glass cases containing his treasured collections. The guitar Mick Jagger had smashed at Altamont: Keith Richards's prized 1950 Telecaster, dating from the first year of mass production, still sporting its original pickups. The scribbled music sheets to "Imagine," with the coffee stains and obscene doodles in the margins. His wife said the control room looked like Planet Hollywood. That really pissed him off. This space was one of the greatest collections of rock memorabilia anywhere. The place where he'd discovered the Suburban Lawnmowers from an over-the-transom four-track demo mailed from Cincinnati. This is where he'd first heard the sounds of Rappah Jowly and felt that special creeping sensation go up his spine. Cutforth had an ear. He had a knack of recognizing a big-money sound. He didn't know where the ear came from, and he didn't care. It worked, and that's all that mattered.

Planet Hollywood, my ass. Where the hell is that smell coming from?

Cutforth followed his nose toward the plate-glass window looking into the studio. It was definitely in there. Some piece of equipment frying, perhaps.

He opened the heavy soundproofed door. As he did so, the smell washed over him like an oily fog. He hadn't noticed through the glass, but there was a light haze in the air here. And it wasn't just that sulfurous smell; there was something a lot worse now. It reminded him of a pig wallow on a hot summer day.

He glanced around the studio quickly, at the Bösendorfer piano and his beloved Neumann microphones, at the isolation chambers, the acoustically tiled walls.

Had some motherfucker been messing with his studio?

Cutforth searched the room with his eyes, anger vying with fear. It was impossible anyone had gotten into his apartment. It had state-of-the-art security. When you dealt with gangstas and others who settled business differences with lead instead of lawyers, you had to have good security.

He glanced around. Everything seemed to be in its place. The recording equipment was off. He laid his hand on the row of mic preamps: cool, the rows of LEDs all dark. But what was this? Over in the far corner there was something lying on the floor.

He stepped over, bent close to the blond wood, picked it up. It was a tooth. Or more like a tusk. Like a boar's tusk. With blood on it, still wet. And a knot of bloody gristle at one end.

He dropped it in violent disgust.

Some fucker has been in here.

Cutforth swallowed, backed away. It was impossible. No one could get in. Hadn't he just unlocked the door himself? Maybe it had happened yesterday, when he'd shown that promoter around, a guy he really didn't know. You dealt with a lot of weird people in this business. He quickly got a cloth, picked up the tooth with it, practically ran to the kitchen, dropped it down the garbage disposal, and turned it on, listening to the raw grinding noise. The thing exhaled a bad smell and he averted his face.

A shrill buzzer sounded, and he just about jumped through the wall. Taking deep breaths, he went to the intercom, pressed the buzzer.

"Mr. Cutforth? There's a police officer to see you."

Cutforth peered into the tiny video screen beside the intercom and saw a forty-something cop standing in the lobby, shifting from foot to foot.

"On a Saturday? What does he want?"

"He won't say, sir."

Cutforth finally got his breathing under control. The thought of a cop in his apartment right now was almost inviting. "Send him up."

On closer inspection, the officer looked just like any Italian-American cop, with the working-class Queens accent to boot. Cutforth settled the cop on the living room sofa and took a chair opposite. The guy had Southampton on his patch, which confirmed what Cutforth already suspected. This was about Grove. He had caller ID; he should never have answered that crazy son of a bitch's phone call.

The cop took out a notebook and pen, displayed a microcassette recorder.

"No taping," said Cutforth.

The cop shrugged, returned it to his pocket. "Funny smell in here."

"Ventilation problems."

The cop turned the pages of his notebook, got himself all positioned and ready to go. Cutforth settled back in the chair, crossing his arms. "Okay, Officer Dee-Agusta, what can I do for you?"

"Did you know Jeremy Grove?"

"No."

"He called you very early on the morning of October 16."

"Did he?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

Cutforth uncrossed his arms, crossed and recrossed his legs, already regretting having let the cop up. The only redeeming thing was, the cop didn't look too bright.

"The answer's yes, he did call me."

"What did you talk about?"

"Do I have to answer these questions?"

"No-at least not at this moment. If you wish, we could arrange something more formal."

Cutforth didn't like the sound of that. He thought quickly. "There's nothing to hide. I have a collection of musical instruments, rock memorabilia, that sort of thing. He was interested in buying something."

"What?"

"Just a letter."

"Show it to me."

Cutforth managed to suppress any look of surprise. He stood up. "Follow me."

They went back into the control room. Cutforth cast his eyes around. "That."

The cop went over, looked, frowning.

"A letter Janis Joplin wrote to Jim Morrison, but never mailed. Just two lines. Called him the worst lay of her life." Cutforth mustered a chuckle.

The cop took out his notebook and began copying the letter. Cutforth rolled his eyes.

"And the price?"

"I told him it wasn't for sale."

"Did he give a reason why he was interested?"

"He just said he collected Doors paraphernalia. That's all."

"And you didn't mind getting a call in the wee hours of the morning?"

"In the music business, we keep late hours." Cutforth walked toward the control room door, held it open, giving the cop a big hint about leaving. But the man didn't budge. Instead, he seemed to be sniffing the air again.

"That smell, it's really peculiar."

"I'm about to call maintenance."

"There was exactly this smell at the site of Jeremy Grove's homicide."

Cutforth swallowed. What was it Grove had said? The smell is the worst part of it. I can hardly think straight. In his call, Grove said he'd found something-a lump of fur-covered meat the size of a golf ball. It had seemed to be alive . at least until Grove stomped on it and flushed it down the toilet. Cutforth felt his heart pounding in his rib cage, and he took a couple of breaths, let them out slowly, the way he'd been taught in those anxiety management classes. This was ridiculous. This was the twenty-first fucking century. Cool it, Nigel.

"Do you know a Locke Bullard, Mr. Cutforth? Or one Ranier Beckmann?"

These questions, coming on the heels of each other, almost physically staggered Cutforth. He shook his head, hoping his expression wasn't betraying him.

"You been in touch with Beckmann?" he pressed.

"No." Hell, he never should have let the cop in here.

"What about Bullard? You been in touch with him? You know, just a friendly chat about old times?"

"No. I don't know the man. I don't know either one of them."

The cop made a long notation in his notebook. Cutforth wondered what it was that took so long to write down. He felt the sweat trickling down his sides. He swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. His mouth was dry.

"Sure you don't want to tell me more about that telephone call? Because everybody else who spoke to him that night said Grove was upset. Terribly upset. Not exactly in the mood to buy rock memorabilia."

"I already told you everything."

Now at last they returned to the living room. Cutforth didn't sit down or offer a seat to the cop. He just wanted him out.

"Do you always keep the apartment this hot, Mr. Cutforth?"

It was hot, Cutforth noticed; hot even for him. He didn't answer.

"It was also excessively warm at the site of the Grove homicide, despite the fact that the heat was off in the house." The cop looked at him inquiringly, but still Cutforth said nothing.

The cop grunted, slapped shut his notebook, returned the pen to its leather loop. "If I were you, Mr. Cutforth, next time I'd decline to answer a police officer's questions without a lawyer present."

"Why?"

"Because a lawyer would advise you that keeping your mouth shut is better than lying."

Cutforth stared at the cop. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

"Grove hated rock music."

Cutforth stifled his response. This cop wasn't as dumb as he looked. In fact, he was about as dumb as a fox.

"I'll be back, Mr. Cutforth. And next time it will be on tape and under oath. Keep in mind that perjury is a serious crime. One way or the other, we will find out what you discussed with Grove. Thank you for your time."

As soon as the elevator had hummed its way down, Cutforth picked up the phone with a shaking hand and dialed. What he needed was a humping vacation on the beach. A beach on the other side of the earth. He knew a girl in Phuket who did amazing things. He couldn't leave tomorrow-Jowly, his biggest client, was coming in for an overdub session-but after that he'd be clean gone, fuck the rest of the clients. He was going to get the hell out of town. Away from his wife. Away from this cop and his questions. And, most especially, away from this apartment and its stench .

"Doris? Nigel here. I want to book a flight to Bangkok. Tomorrow night if possible, otherwise first thing Monday. No, just me. With a limo and driver for Phuket. And find me a nice big house on the beach, something really secure, with a cook, maid, personal trainer, bodyguard, the works. Don't tell anyone where I've gone, okay, Doris darling? Yeah, Thailand . I know it's hot this time of year, you let me worry about the heat."

Do you always keep the apartment this hot, Mr. Cutforth?

He slammed the phone down and went into the bedroom, threw a suitcase on the bed, and began hauling things out of his closet: bathing suits, sharkskin jacket and slacks, shades, sandals, money, watch, passport, satellite phone.

They couldn't nail him for perjury if they couldn't frigging find him.