Marked Man

50

To avoid the crowds and reporters waiting outside, they let me sneak out the back of the Ciulla house while Slocum was on the front steps making a statement and saying nothing. Sure, I wanted to avoid the snap, snap of cameras and shouted questions that make even the pope look guilty of something, but I also wanted a moment to check out the basement on my way from the house. I had hoped I’d be unescorted, but they sent a uniform named Ernie along to make sure I found my way out. Nice of them, don’t you think?

With the light on, the basement was an altogether less ominous place. The shadowy boxes were now just cartons of stuff. The heap of bizarre implements on the makeshift worktable were welder’s tools, a torch, a mask, an igniter, spools of solder, all covered with a layer of dust and debris. The sad remnants of Ralph Ciulla’s failed dream.

When McDeiss had asked about the pickax in Stanford Quick’s Volvo, I had simply shrugged and mentioned something about the gardens at Quick’s Gladwyne estate. I purposely hadn’t told McDeiss about the equipment, clothes, and guns buried in Ralph Ciulla’s basement, and I had my reasons. Sheila the Realtor was doing me a favor and keeping tabs on any potential buyers for the Ciulla house. There was surprising interest in the property, she said. I didn’t want word to get out that the cops were digging up the basement before I discovered from where the interest was emanating.

I had hoped the uniform would point me to the door and then head back upstairs, giving me time to explore, but it didn’t seem to be happening.

“Out this way, Mr. Carl.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” I said. “You can go on up if you want. I can get out from here.”

“That’s all right,” said Ernie as he led me forward and pulled open the door for me. “I’m glad to help.”

Ernie stood in the rear entryway and watched as I opened my car door and waved. He was still watching as I started the car and pulled out of the parking spot beside Stanford Quick’s Volvo and into the alley. They seem to be training them better these days.

I was just reaching the end of the alley when a shadowy figure jumped in front of my car. I slammed on the breaks and just avoided slamming into the intrepid Rhonda Harris.

I rolled down my window, she came around the side and leaned on the sill.

“Can you give me a ride?”

“You’re missing Mr. Slocum’s statement,” I said.

“Is he saying anything?”

“No.”

“Then I’d rather talk to you.”

“I don’t think so, Rhonda. I have nothing to say to the press.”

She gave me a sly smile. “I felt bad about walking out on you that night.”

“It was a bit abrupt.”

“The business I had to deal with was completed sooner than I thought. I slipped over to your apartment, but you weren’t there.”

“You really came over?”

“Yeah. Where were you?”

Screwing Sheila the Realtor, I thought but didn’t say. “I called a friend.”

“Someone I should be jealous of?”

“No,” I said.

“Good. What about that ride?”

I thought about it for a moment. Everything told me it was a mistake to put a reporter in my car, but she had come to my apartment looking for me, she had sought me out. The old weakness started shaking my knees.

“Sure,” I said, and her smile was bright enough to hurt.

She said she was living in the Loews Hotel on Market Street while she was working on the story. As I headed for I-95 and then drove south into Center City, I could feel her sitting next to me, her heat, her spicy red scent, the sensuality that she seemed to broadcast into the very air about her.

“What was it like in that house?” she said.

“Let’s just say you have a nicer fragrance than the dead man.”

“You want to tell me who he was?”

“Have the police announced his name yet?”

“No. They say they’re waiting until the family is notified.”

“Then I’ll wait, too.”

“Is this also about the painting?”

“No comment, Rhonda, really. I thought this was just a ride.”

“It is, but I am a reporter. Why don’t I make a few statements? If I’m completely off base, you’ll tell me. If I’m not, you won’t say anything.”

“Is this a trick you learned in journalism school?”

“No, from Robert Redford. You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

“The dead man was somehow associated with Ralph Ciulla.”

“No comment.”

“And he, too, was somehow involved with the painting.”

“Still no comment.”

“And the rumor swirling around the press corps was that he was some prominent lawyer.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“And other people are at risk, including your client.”

“Can we stop now?”

“And it’s all about someone who is desperate to get the painting for himself.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “I don’t think it has anything to do with the painting.”

“No? Then what is it about?”

“I’m not answering questions, remember?”

“But it is all somehow related, the robbery and the painting and your client and the two dead men, right?”

“No comment.”

“Okay, that’s great. Wait a moment, I have to make a call.” She took out a cell phone, pressed a button on her speed dial, waited for someone on the other end. “Jim? Rhonda. It’s just like I told you… Right, it’s all connected. So along with the Rembrandt and the hood on the lam who wants to get home, there are two dead guys already and probably more on the way… Yes, wonderful, isn’t it? I don’t think weneed to wait and see if I can get the interview anymore, let’s get it done… Great. Let me know… Ciao.”

“Who was that?” I said. “Your editor?”

“No, my agent.”

“Your agent?”

“We’re packaging this whole thing as a true-crime book: art, death, sex.”

“Sex?”

“There’s always sex,” she said as her hand distractedly fell on my knee, as if she were going to put sex in her book right then and there. “A couple publishers have already bid, but the offers have been limited because they all thought the scope was too small and they were waiting to see if I could get access to Charlie. With another body they won’t care about that anymore. I should have an advance by tomorrow afternoon.”

“There’s a man dead in that house. He had a wife and kids.”

“Yeah. That’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“How’d you get so hard on the art beat?”

“Artists are a bitch. Okay, no more business, I promise. How are you?”

“A bit rattled, actually.”

“Oh, Victor, I’m sorry,” she said. She lifted her hand from my leg, put her palm on my cheek. “I forget that you have a weak stomach.”

“It’s just that I was feeling really envious of him for the whole day until I found him dead. It was like he had the life I always wanted, the house, the job, the family life.”

“And now it’s available.”

I laughed. “Oh, so I should give the wife a call?”

“After a suitable mourning period.”

“And what is that?”

“Depends. Was she good-looking?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Then don’t wait too long.”

“You are hard, aren’t you?”

“It’s a hard world, Victor. You have to take what you want.”

“Do you think I’m tough enough to do that?”

“Victor, are you okay?”

“I’m just asking. What do you think?”

“No comment,” she said.

“I guess that’s my answer.”

When I pulled up in front of her hotel, she sat quiet in the car for a long moment. The Loews was in the old PSFS Building, a classic of modern design. The building was sleek and spare, with clean lines and big windows. I couldn’t help but think that making love in the Loews would be like making love in a Swedish movie. And Rhonda actually did look a little like Liv Ullmann.

“Do you want to come up?” she said finally.

“I don’t know. Maybe not tonight. I can still see him sitting there. He was in a chair. He still had a drink in his hand.”

“A drink in his hand? Oh, that is terrific. I have to call back and tell my agent that. It’s the details that make a story. When the book comes out, Victor, I’m going to make you a star, I promise.”

“I don’t feel like a star.”

“Not yet, you don’t. And an interview with your client would really seal the deal. Will you ask him?”

“Yes, I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you,” she said. She leaned over and gave me a kiss. It started out like a little peck, but it evolved. Her lips on mine were hard, angular. She leaned her upper body toward me so that her breast pressed into my chest, and when she opened her mouth, our teeth clacked. Her tongue was strong and rough. You could almost hear the sproing of arousal in my pants.

“Come on up,” she said, her voice suddenly husky. “We could order room service. Champagne and strawberries, what do you say? To celebrate my pending book deal.”

“I don’t think I should.”

“Oh, Victor, don’t think so much.”

“I can’t help it. It’s been my lifelong curse. So I’m sorry, really, but I have to decline. Besides, I have to pack. I’m heading out of town.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m finding out tonight.”