Night Film

104

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He quit,” said the young man behind the Klavierhaus counter.

“When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Where did he go?”

“No clue. It was pretty sudden. Mr. Reisinger, our owner, was pissed ’cuz we’re short-staffed now. I’m just an intern. But Peter had been having some problems, so.”

“Do you have his phone number?”

The kid looked it up and I dialed it, heading out of the shop — the Fazioli piano that Ashley had played still in the window.

I stopped on the sidewalk in disbelief. A recording announced that the number had been disconnected.

I didn’t know what it meant — only that something was wrong.

I hailed a cab, and minutes later was striding into the lobby of The Campanile — Marlowe Hughes’s building. I recognized the chubby-faced doorman as the second one who’d been on duty the day I’d approached Harold.

“I’m looking for Harold,” I said, stepping toward him.

“He doesn’t work here anymore. Got a brand-new gig on Fifth. Some swank white-glove building—”

“Which one? I need the address.”

“He didn’t say.”

“I need to go upstairs to see Marlowe.” I handed him my business card. “I’m a friend of Olivia Endicott’s.”

“Marlowe?”

“Marlowe Hughes. Apartment 1102.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, Miss Hughes isn’t exactly … home.”

“Where is she?”

“I can’t discuss the particulars.”

Alarm flooding through me, I handed the man a hundred bucks, which he cheerfully pocketed.

“They packed her off to rehab,” he said quietly. “She had an incident. But she’s all right.”

“Could you still let me into her apartment?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, no. No one’s been up there since—”

“I know Olivia’s out of the country, but call her assistant. She’ll authorize it.”

He looked doubtful, but waited patiently while I found the number.

“Yeah, hi,” he said into the phone after I dialed for him. “This is The Campanile. I got a gentleman here.” He squinted down at my business card. “Scott McGrath.” He went on to explain the situation, falling silent.

And then, abruptly, his face — so amiable before — sobered. He glanced at me, visibly startled, then hung up without a word. He stood up, coming around the side of the desk, his arm out to escort me toward the door.

“You’re gonna have to be on your way, mister.”

“Just tell me what she said.”

“If you harass any of the people here again, I’m gonna call the cops. You don’t have any connection to Olivia Endicott.”

Outside, I turned back — speechless — but he was standing staunchly in the door, glaring at me.

I headed swiftly down the sidewalk. When I reached the corner, I dialed Olivia’s assistant’s number myself. She picked up immediately.

“This is Scott McGrath. What the hell just happened?”

“I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Cut the bullshit. What’d you tell the doorman?”

She said nothing, seemingly deciding whether or not to feign ignorance. Then, in a cold, clipped voice:

“Mrs. du Pont would prefer it if you did not contact her or any member of her family.”

“Mrs. du Pont and I are working together.”

“Not anymore. She wants no further connection to your activities.”

I hung up, seething, and phoned The Campanile’s management company to get Harold’s home phone number.

It was disconnected.