Little Girl Lost

Chapter 13

I called Leo from the hallway outside my mother’s apartment. It was after seven and normally he’d be heading to Port Authority soon to catch the 7:47 bus back home, but there was another bus at 9:40, and if he missed that there was a train. I explained what I needed him to do and told him I’d be at the office in twenty minutes to give him the key.

“Every day I seem to be getting more involved in this project of yours,” he said. “Don’t I remember you telling me when all this started that you didn’t need my help?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t need it. I said I wasn’t asking for it.”

“And now you’re asking?”

“It’ll take you twenty minutes. Not even. Fifteen.” He didn’t say anything. “Yes, I’m asking.”

“Should I take a gun?” he said.

“It’s just picking up a couple of bags from a hotel room.”

He thought about it. “I’ll take a gun,” he said. “You probably should, too.”

I didn’t much like carrying a gun, but there were times when it was called for. “Yes. I probably should.”

I pushed the button for the elevator, and while I was waiting, a woman came out of 14-D carrying an armload of cardboard hatboxes. She looked a little like Mrs. Knechtel, thin brown hair framing an oval face seamed with tiny wrinkles. A sister, I guessed, or maybe a close cousin. She tried to push the door to the garbage room open with her hip. I opened it for her and held it while she lowered the boxes to the floor. Two framed posters were already there, leaning against the wall.

“I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just so sudden,” she said. “And there are so many things to go through. I don’t know where to start.”

I knew how she felt.

We traded, the key for the gun, and then each headed off in our own direction: Leo to the Martinique on Broadway and Thirty-second, I to my apartment. I watched him through the back window of my cab, saw him with his arm raised to hail one of his own. In the midwinter darkness, in his heavy overcoat and wool cap, Leo suddenly looked old to me, too.

There was no one walking in the street as we pulled up to my building, and just a few cars were parked at the curb. The front door was glass and the hallway beyond was well lit. I could see all the way in to the stairs, and there was no one there. But there were plenty of places someone could stand and not be visible. Behind the door leading down to the basement was one choice; the second, third, or fourth floor landings were others. And there was always inside my apartment itself. I’d installed a Medeco lock and a police bar, but neither was a guarantee against intruders, especially when the building’s windows were so insecure.

I thought about going around to the back, up the fire escape, and in through the window myself, but apart from the noise it would have made and the fact that anyone in my apartment would have a clear shot at me long before I’d have one at him, I just didn’t have it in me tonight.

I gripped the gun in my right hand inside my jacket pocket and readied the front door key in my left. No one came while I was opening the door or, once I was in the vestibule next to the mailboxes, while I waited for it to swing closed. No one stopped me on the stairs. No one fired down on me from above or came up behind me from below. I took each flight slowly, pausing at each landing to release my grip on the gun, wipe my palm, and re-grip. The stairwell was silent, aside from the muffled sounds of television coming from behind some apartment doors.

When I got to the fourth floor, I listened at my door for a full minute before unlocking it and cautiously pushing it open with my foot. I had the gun out, held before me in both hands to steady my aim if I needed it. I let the door slam shut behind me and quickly turned left and right to look into the kitchen and the bathroom. No one was standing behind the shower curtain or behind the kitchen door. There wasn’t room for anyone in the apartment’s one closet, but I checked anyway. I turned in a circle, trying to spot anything that looked like it had been disturbed. Nothing did. I lowered the gun, went back to the front door and locked it.

Murco Khachadurian’s number was where I’d left it, next to the piece of paper with Kirsch’s and Mastaduno’s. I slipped both pieces of paper into my pocket along with whatever cash I had in my desk drawer. I unplugged the cell phone charger from the wall, coiled up the cord and put the whole thing in my jacket pocket. No way of knowing when I’d be back here next. What else might I need? I looked around. The Serner files were still lying on the bed. I slipped the rubber band back over them and put them under the bed. Not much of a hiding place, but it also wasn’t the end of the world if they got stolen.

What else? I could change my clothes. I could take another hot shower. I could try to get some sleep, start with a fresh head tomorrow. These were all reasonable things to do, and they were all just excuses to put off what I had to do.

I dug out the cell phone number and dialed it.

His voice, when it finally came, sounded hoarse, like he’d spent the night talking in a crowded bar or the past twenty years smoking two packs a day.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Mr. Khachadurian?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“My name is John Blake,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”

“ Blake? You’re calling me? How did you get this number?”

“It sounds like you know who I am,” I said. “That means you probably know I’m looking into the death of Miranda Sugarman.”

Silence. Then: “I can’t talk to you now. I’m with company. I’ll call you back.”

“Why don’t you tell them it’s a personal call and you have to take it,” I said.

“Don’t push me,” he said. “We’ll talk when I’m ready to talk.” The line was disconnected.

I put the cell phone down on my desk and watched it. Like the proverbial pot, it didn’t boil. But that was the number Khachadurian would be calling on if he did call back, since that was the number that would have shown up on his phone’s display.

I wondered what he was doing. Company, he’d said, and in the background there’d been the noise of conversations, the sound of cutlery and dishes. It could have been a dinner party in Scarsdale or a restaurant just down the block. No way to tell.

He’d known my name. Of course, all that meant is that Lenz had told him about the incident at the club, or maybe that one of the cards I’d handed out to the girls had made it back to him – but all the same it made me anxious. I had the feeling that Murco Khachadurian had been paying closer attention to me than I had realized.

The more time passed without his calling back, the more nervous I got. What if he did know where I lived? It was certainly possible. That risk was why I hadn’t brought Susan here, and it was a good reason for me not to stick around either. Maybe there hadn’t been someone waiting for me in my apartment, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone watching the building from the street, or that there wouldn’t be momentarily.

I grabbed the cell phone and the gun, took one last look around for anything I might be forgetting. I was locking the door behind me when the cell phone started buzzing. I pocketed my keys and flipped the phone open left-handed, holding tight to the gun in my other hand.

“I ended my dinner early for you, Mr. Blake,” he said. “Now I’m ready to talk.”

“Good.” I started down the stairs.

“I want to know everything you know about Miranda Sugarman,” he said.

“That’s funny,” I said, “I was about to say exactly the same thing.”

“Well, then, maybe we can sit down together, share some information.”

“I appreciate the invitation, but I prefer the phone. Scarsdale is a little out of my way.”

“Who said anything about Scarsdale? We’re right here, Mr. Blake.”

I rounded the corner to the last half-flight of stairs. An enormous man was standing with one foot on the lowest step and a gun held casually in his fist. Behind him, a thin man with a grey crew cut was talking into a cell phone. He saw me and flipped it closed, raised the gun in his other hand. “Put your gun down, Mr. Blake. And the phone. You won’t need them.”