Innocent monster

NINE

The Brill Gallery was less impressive than a brown paper bag and the art inside less interesting. Basically, it was a rectangle of four white walls, a white ceiling with tiny halogen spotlights, a blond hardwood floor, and a few white pedestals for sculpture. There was a small white table in one corner for brochures and a white desk in the opposite corner. A curveless woman of thirty with heavy-framed black glasses, cropped black hair, and lip, nose, and eyebrow piercings sat at the desk. The best and most colorful art in the place were the tattoos that covered her exposed flesh. Unfortunately, she was as interested in me as I was in the art. She paid far more mind to whatever was flashing on the laptop screen.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes,” she said, not gazing up.

“Are you the owner of the gallery?”

Still not looking up. “Do I look like the owner?”

“I don’t know. What does the owner look like?”

She raised her eyes, unamused. “Not like me.”

“Can I speak to the owner?”

“If you have her cell phone number and know what time it is in Bali, I imagine you could.”

“So you’re it?”

“Tag, what fun,” she said, returning her gaze to the screen.

I snapped the computer closed without removing any of her fingertips.

“Fuck! What did you do that for?”

“To get your attention. That’s what this is for too.” I showed her my badge. I figured I should put it to good use, having aired it out once already today.

“Are you like the art police?”

“If I was, this place would be a crime scene. This stuff is crap.”

She smiled. It was actually a pretty and welcoming smile. “I know. It’s dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Let’s start over.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “My name’s Lenya.”

“Moe.”

“What can I do for you, Moe?”

“I need an address for Nathan Martyr.”

“Why, are you actually going to arrest him for this stuff?”

“This is his work?”

“In all its vapid glory.”

“As my mom used to say, feh!”

Double feh. It’s putrid.”

“Then why does the owner bother?” I asked.

Lenya leaned forward conspiratorially. “The truth?”

“Nothing but.”

“I think she’s hoping he drops dead. Then his new crap becomes valuable crap and his old crap becomes extremely valuable crap.”

“Why?”

“Because if he’s dead, he won’t be able to produce any more crap. They’ll do retrospectives and the critics will reevaluate him and he’ll become in death what he wasn’t in life. Nothing like a little death to raise your profile in the art world.”

“But what makes the gallery owner so hopeful about Martyr kicking?”

“His habit.”

“Heroin?”

“Yep.”

“Bad?”

“He’s the man on the monkey’s back, not the other way around.” She frowned. “Damn. I don’t suppose I should have told that to a cop.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’m not interested. Do you have an address for him?”

She hesitated. I didn’t jump on her. If she needed a push, I knew how I’d push, but bullying wasn’t the way to go.

“Swear to me it’s not about the drugs,” she said, flicking a Rolodex card with her fingers.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Here.”

I wrote the salient information down and thanked her. She smiled that smile at me again, only this time her intentions were a little more obvious.

“You’ve got a beautiful smile, but I’m old enough to be your father.”

“I love my father.”

“He’s a lucky man. Bye, Lenya.”

Given what Rusk and Lenya told me, I half expected Nathan Martyr to be living down a rat hole and sleeping on a bed of used needles. Some rat hole! The address Lenya gave me turned out to be a converted factory building in DUMBO-Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass-not more than a ten-minute walk from Bordeaux In Brooklyn. The bricks had been repointed and the terra cotta work around the huge arched windows had been beautifully restored. Anyone living above the fifth floor would have spectacular views in any direction.

The doorman was an ex-cop. I didn’t recognize him by face, but by attitude. He gave me the you’re-not-getting-past-me stare when I came through the wrought iron and glass entrance. His “Can I help you, chief?” sounded more like a threat than a question. I guess if I lived in this joint and shelled out what the residents paid for the pleasure, I’d want this guy as my gatekeeper too. But from where I stood, he was just an annoyance, an obstacle to get around that wasn’t going to make it easy for me.

“Relax,” I said. “I used to be on the job too.”

There were two ways he could go with that. Either he would give up the hard-ass stare and ask me about where I’d served and how long ago and who did I know that he knew, or he’d harden and get defensive. I hoped for the former, but was betting on the latter. I wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah, you and thousands of other guys,” he said. “If I got a stiffy every time an ex-cop stepped through that door, I wouldn’t need Viagra. Whatchu want?”

I learned a long time ago, before I ever got on the cops, that backing down to a guy like this was a big mistake. I met a hundred guys like this prick when I was on the job. Some people become cops because it’s in their blood. Some, like me, stumble into it. Then there are assholes that want the gun and badge, guys who want the power of the state to sanctify their bullying. Bullies are bullies, in uniform or out. Truth be told, I hated the bullies much more than the people I arrested.

“Take it down a notch on the heavy routine,” I said, staring back at him with unfriendly eyes. “I’m here to see Nathan Martyr, 6E.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Not unless he reads minds.”

“Name?”

“Moe Prager.”

“What should I tell him this is about?” the doorman asked, his tone a tad more mellow.

“Sashi Bluntstone.”

“The missing kid?”

“Yeah, her. I’m working for the parents.”

“I already talked to the Nassau cops,” he said. “He was here the day the kid disappeared. They got my statement.”

Okay, that took some air out of my balloon, but not all of it. I was just as interested in the crazies who visited Martyr’s website and blog as I was in Martyr himself.

“He’s got an alibi, good. Then, when I go up, Martyr and I can talk of Michelangelo,” I said. “You gonna ring him or what?”

The doorman pulled the phone off its wall cradle and punched in 6E.

“Yes, Mr. Martyr, there’s an ex-cop here to see you… Moe Prager… about the missing Bluntstone kid… yes, sir, I told him… very good, Mr. Martyr.” He replaced the phone. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“Those his words?”

“No, Prager. His words were ‘Fuck him! Tell him to get the fuck out of here.’”

“Nice guy.”

“A real charmer,” the doorman confessed. “Personally, I think he’s the biggest dick I ever met, but he’s the boss in this, so it’s time for you to hit the road.”

“So you vouched for him for the day Sashi Bluntstone went missing?”

“I did. He went out for breakfast. Came back in here about ten thirty and didn’t leave for the rest of the day.”

“No offense, but how can you be so sure he didn’t slip past you or go out through another entrance?”

He waved me over to his desk and gestured for me to take a gander. There, hidden behind the wall of the desk, were eight video screens, one of which was currently featuring a shot of my thinning hair.

“Even if I’m away from my desk to drain the dragon, everything is kept on tape for review and it’s digital. The minute I get back, I review all the camera footage from the time I was away. Martyr was in his loft from the time he came back from breakfast to the time I got off shift.”

“Thanks, I appreciate the help.”

I turned and left. Oh, I was going to come back, but there was no need to piss anyone off or to get any more unwanted attention.

I sat outside the place in my car, hoping Martyr might leave the building to score some drugs. While I didn’t know what he looked like, I did know what drug-sick junkies looked like. I decided to take my chances with that. After about an hour and a half, I’d had enough. Truth be told, I was getting too old and impatient for this shit, though not nearly as impatient as my bladder. Sitting down the block from the Bluntstones for ten minutes was one thing. This was something else. I put the car in drive and set out for the nearest bar. Unlike almost every other kind of business establishment in the five boroughs of New York City, bars tended not to bust your balls for wanting to use their restrooms. More often than not, they figured you’d wind up buying a drink anyway.

Down the block from Grimaldi’s Pizza and in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, I found a bar. I was so happy, I nearly got religion. It didn’t last. Just as I parked the car and reached to open my door, there was a bang and my car lurched forward.

Fuck!

I got out of my car ready to take a swing at the idiot who’d just rear-ended me. Much easier to take a swing when you have a gun on you… just in case. I don’t know, I guess maybe I was a little more frustrated at not making immediate headway in finding Sashi. It had begun to sink in while I was parked outside Martyr’s building that I was further behind than I imagined, that three weeks in a missing child case was an eternity and that if I ever did catch up, it would be far too late. My fists were clenched when I turned around and saw her standing there.

“Oh, my god. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I did any damage to your car,” she said, her voice raspy and on the deep side. She pronounced car and god like a New Englander.

She wasn’t beautiful, but not by much. Forty, give or take, she possessed that deadly combination of dark blue eyes and black hair. Forty! Christ, I remember when I thought forty was old. I remember when I thought it was ancient. Now I felt ancient and forty seemed as far past me as fifteen. Her hair was bob cut and had some gray filtering through it. She had a plush mouth, nice cheekbones, and was impeccably madeup, but not so you couldn’t see the lines at the corners of her lips and eyes. I liked that. She had lived a little and wasn’t trying to hide it. She wore a black leather coat, black stockings, and heels. The heels were high without being ridiculous. I found myself staring at her ringless left hand. I don’t know if she caught me staring.

“I’m so sorry. It doesn’t look like there’s any damage,” she repeated. “Come look.”

I did and she was right. There was no damage. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. If the car’s scratched, I’ll just throw it out and buy a new one.”

“You’re funny.”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m new to the city and it’s been kind of hard getting adjusted. Now this… not my day, not my month.”

“Really, don’t worry about it…”

“Mary, Mary Lambert.”

“Moe Prager.” We shook hands. “No offense, Mary, but if I don’t get to a restroom soon…”

“Go on. I’ll wait for you in case you decide you want to exchange information.”

“Fine.”

When I came out of the bar, she was still there.

“It’s nice that you waited, but I think we’re okay.”

“Well, Moe, here’s my business card anyway.”

I put it in my wallet, but didn’t offer her one of mine.

“So, Mary Lambert, can I ask you what had you so preoccupied that you missed the fact that my car was sitting right there in front of you?”

She blushed. “I got lost and I was pulling to the curb to try and get my bearings. I had an appointment on Court Street and when I left I got all turned around.” She looked at her watch. “And I have to get back to my sublet in Greenpoint in about a half hour.”

“You’re okay. You’ve got plenty of time and you’re not that lost. I’ll show you the way, but if you’re going to do a lot of driving in this town, invest in a GPS. Manhattan is easy to get around in because it’s laid out on a grid, but the other boroughs, not so much. You could ride around forever and never find your way to or from your destination.”

“I know, but I’m just a stubborn Bostonian. We figure if you can navigate those streets, you can find your way around anywhere.”

“Boston, huh?”

“Oh, Christ, don’t tell me you’re a Yankees fan.”

“Mets fan,” I said. “We’re united in our loathing of the Yanks.”

“There was ‘86, but I’ll overlook that.”

“I appreciate it.”

“So what kind of appointment did you have on Court Street? I used to have an office at 4 °Court.”

“You’re joshing me! That’s where I had my appointment,” she said. “I’m an IT consultant to law firms. My company moved me here for a few months because we’ve landed several contracts with big firms throughout the area. Don’t tell me you’re a lawyer.”

“God, no. I’m a retired cop and I was a partner in a security and investigations firm-4 °Court is where we had our offices.”

“A PI?”

“That was years ago, Mary, and it’s a lot less exciting than you’d think.”

She looked at her watch again and frowned. “Moe, I’m sorry, but I have to get back to my place and do a conference call with the home office.”

Shit! “ That’s okay. I’ll get you back onto the BQE.”

When I approached her to point the way, I noticed that she smelled as fine as she looked. Her perfume was grassy with grace notes of musk and honey. I pointed out how she should turn around, go left under the Brooklyn Bridge, and follow the signs to the BQE East. “Get off at McGuinness-Humboldt and you should be okay from there.”

“Thank you, Moe Prager. You’re a gentleman.”

I held my hand out to her. She took it, but held on to it a little longer than I would have expected. “Listen, Moe, I still feel like an idiot for hitting your car. Let me take you to dinner. My treat. I could use a friend in this city. Us New Englanders, we like to think of ourselves as a hardy bunch, but this city will test you.”

“How could I say no to that offer? And we can all use another friend.”

She smiled and it lit up the afternoon. “Tonight?”

“I can’t,” I said, “not tonight.”

“Then call me. You’ve got my numbers.”

“I will. I promise.”

With that, Mary Lambert let go of my hand and got back into her car. I watched it disappear under the Brooklyn Bridge and I suddenly felt very lonely. I wasn’t a monk by any stretch. I’d dated a lot since Carmella and I split, but the walls I’d built around myself were thick. Closeness was no longer part of the equation for me, which meant my relationships with women had a very limited shelf life. I only felt the loneliness when I met someone like Mary, someone with whom I felt immediately comfortable. It reminded me of what I no longer had and would probably never have again.