Through The Grinder

Fourteen

An hour after sunset, autumn abruptly changed to winter in the Village, giving me my first New York snowfall in ten years. Icy flakes were falling, coating cobblestones, blanketing rooftops, and clinging to stately bare trees.

As eager as I was to see Bruce, I didn’t hurry as I made my way down Hudson. The next morning or afternoon, the temperature would undoubtedly rise again, and all of this would melt. Tonight, while I had the chance, I wanted to take my time and enjoy the radiant charm of streetlights glowing through gauzy lace.

They say time slows for people in this part of the city. The pace is more leisurely, the objectives more mannered than midtown’s lean, reaching towers of commercial sport. On a twilight evening like this, however, with a thick white blanket muting sounds of car traffic, ambulance sirens, and cell phones, time didn’t just slow, it stopped altogether. I was no longer in twenty-first century Manhattan. With the ghostly low clouds erasing even the tops of skyscrapers, I’d entered the pages of Henry James or Edith Wharton.

My boots crunched with every step as I walked, breathing in air that smelled fresh and crisp, enjoying the intimate stillness of the streets, the hush of all things around me.

The row houses of the eighteenth and nineteenth century looked more like dollhouses waiting under a Christmas tree, sweet as gingerbread; the snow, a final dusting of powdered sugar on delicate confections.

I turned onto St. Luke’s Place, one of the most desirable streets to live on in the Village. No more than three-quarters of a block in length, it carried an open and airy feeling, with dozens of tall ginkos lining a row of fifteen beautifully preserved Italianate townhouses. Facing a small park, these homes sat back from the wide sidewalk, their brownstone steps railed with ornate wrought iron, their arched doorways crowned with triangular moldings.

November was far too early for carolers, but given the preservation of historic detail on this stretch, I could almost hear a group of girls singing at the corner, see their buttoned up boots, long, layered skirts, thick velvet coats, and matching fur muffs.

As St. Luke’s curved, turning into Bruce’s street, Leroy, it crossed the line — and so did I. With a few steps, I was no longer in the officially designated historic district. This particular area of the West Village was not considered protected.

Inappropriate demolitions, alterations, or new construction could legally occur at the whim of the property owner. The Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation, founded in 1980 to safeguard the architectural heritage and cultural history of the Village, had been working to change this, and extend the historic district protections.

My steps slowed as I neared the address Bruce had given me. The house was a charming Federal-style with two full stories above ground, topped by dormer windows, indicating a usable attic. Basement windows were also visible below the short flight of railed steps leading to the high stoop and shiny green front door. To the left of that entrance, at street level, was a rustic little door of rough wood. Directly above that small door was a small window.

“The horse walk,” I murmured aloud, watching my warm breath create a pearl gray cloud in the frosty air. I didn’t see this feature too often, but this home was archetypal Federal just as Bruce had said. The horse walk was simply a secondary entrance that provided access to a rear yard — during the 1800s, there would have been a stable in the back or even a second, rear lot house.

Clearly, this property was a choice one, and even though it was beyond the historic boundary, it certainly appeared to deserve landmark status.

I stood for I don’t know how long, watching the snow fall on the place, enjoying the refined simplicity of its lines, the straightforward elegance of its faded bricks and newly painted white-framed windows, and I could almost see it becoming a home — each wide ledge displaying a flower box in summer, a single candle in winter, a wreath on the door every year at Christmas.

Suddenly, the brass lamp fixtures flanking the house’s entrance came brightly to life and the green front door opened.

The light from inside created a silhouette of the man standing in the doorway. The dark shape moved forward, peering onto the sidewalk from the stoop above me.

“Joy?” called Bruce sharply. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” I called back. His mistake was understandable, given my attire — the same bulky bright yellow and black parka he’d seen Joy wearing earlier today. I even had the hood up.

“Oh, thank God,” said Bruce after hearing my voice. He stepped forward and descended the snow-covered steps. I could see him more clearly now. He wore faded jeans, a black cableknit fisherman’s sweater with a crew neck, and steel-toed workboots. God, he looked good.

He stopped in front of me. “For a second there, I was worried something was wrong and you sent Joy to tell me,” he said softly. “What’s with the pregnant bee parka?”

I shrugged. “I just couldn’t take the whining anymore — hell hath no complaint like a daughter forced to look uncool — so I simply swapped her winter coat for mine.”

He smiled. “And you don’t care how you look, I take it?”

“It’s a very warm coat, thank you very much. And it’s really not that silly, is it?”

“Not if you like honey.”

“In that case, you give me no choice.” I bent down, scooped up a handful of wet snow, and made a big, icy ball.

Bruce folded his arms across his black sweater and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not actually thinking of throwing that at me.”

“Try me.”

“A snowball fight is a serious step, Ms. Cosi.”

“Just make one more crack about this coat. I dare you.”

“Only if you give me a peek at your stinger.”

I cocked my arm. “You’ve got three seconds.”

Bruce turned and beat it up the stairs. I let fly, nailing him right in the back of the neck.

“Ow! Damn, that’s cold!”

I laughed, walking up the steps to join him. “Never underestimate a former softball player’s ability to hit her target.”

He was laughing by now, too — and a little bit darkly, but I didn’t suspect why.

“Come on in, then…and get that arctic gear off,” he said.

I unzipped and unhooded as he closed the door — and then, from behind, he struck.

I never saw it coming.

He rubbed the icy ball against my cheek first, then dropped it right down the back of my sweater.

“Bastard! Ahhhh! That’s cold!”

“Yes, it is, and I should know,” he said with a laugh as I jumped around his foyer.

“How the hell did you manage that?” I demanded.

“I scooped snow off the outside handrail as I was coming in. Never underestimate a man who knows how to improvise.”

I managed to tear off my coat and lift my sweater enough to get the half-melted lump out. Bruce was still laughing — until he noticed what I was wearing beneath the puffy yellow parka.

Suddenly, he stopped laughing.

I hadn’t worn the outfit in years. The little red plaid woolen skirt had been hemmed to fall about mid-thigh. (Longer than the dancers in a Britney Spears video, hopefully, but short enough to show some leg.) Black ribbed, winter-weight tights, knee-high black leather boots, and a form-fitting sweater with pearl buttons and a daring décolleté completed the (admittedly) cheeky ensemble.

Being petite sometimes felt like a disadvantage in a town laced with Amazonian fashion models and long, lean dancers. On the other hand, Matt once told me that most men weren’t into height necessarily. What they were after was a shapely form, and my petite size and small waist did seem to call attention to the size of my breasts, which, despite my height, were not by any measure small. When I wanted to, my shape was easy to hide under large blouses and oversized T-shirts. But tonight, with Bruce, I didn’t want to hide. More than ever now, I needed to know how he really felt about me.

With one brief, burning look of naked attraction, Bruce wiped out any guesswork on my part. I no longer had to wonder whether the man would notice my figure and like it, whether he was truly physically attracted to me. One searing look said it all.

“Killer outfit,” he rasped.

Damn. Why did he have to use that word? On the slow walk down, I had tried to forget my anxieties, that oppressive feeling of guilt for talking too much in front of Quinn. Now all I could think about was Quinn’s suspect list — and how to get Bruce off it.

“Clare? What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?”

“Sure. I…uh…” I put my hands to my cheeks, which I didn’t doubt had gone pale. “I’m probably a little chilled from the walk, that’s all.”

“Let me get you warmed up then.” He smiled, put his hand around my waist, and led me down the hall.

The place was clearly still under interior renovation. Drop cloths, ladders, and construction materials cluttered the scuffed hall floor. In the back, beyond the stairs to the second floor, I glimpsed part of the kitchen and saw it was a complete mess with peeling, old wallpaper and dirty tile. He guided me through a doorway to the right and I found myself entering a long, rectangular space. This room was devoid of any furniture — but it was obviously finished. The vast wood floor was highly polished, the walls and moldings carefully restored, and the crowning achievement had to be the fireplace.

“I’ve got furniture in the master bedroom upstairs, but nowhere else,” he explained. “So I thought we’d have a little winter picnic.”

“It’s charming,” I said, and meant it. He’d laid a thick futon flat on the floor, in front of the fire. Big velvet and embroidered pillows were piled in a crescent shape on top. He sat me down in the arch of the crescent, wrapped a soft, chenille throw around my shoulders, and began to rub.

“Warm yet?”

Staring into the fire, I put a hand on his, stilling it. “Yes.”

In that instant I knew that if I looked up, into his eyes, he’d kiss me. And if he kissed me, more would happen.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be physically closer to Bruce. I did. But for my own peace of mind, I had to push him away right now and find a way to question him about the women he’d known.

This wasn’t going to be easy to do without admitting the reason, but I had to try. Coming out with “By the way, did you know you’re a suspect in a murder investigation?” wouldn’t exactly inspire him to keep trusting me. Sure, I could try to explain it all away. But “I really didn’t mean to finger you in a conversation with my detective friend” wouldn’t inspire much confidence, either.

“I’m fine,” I told him stiffly. “You can stop now.”

I could feel the awkwardness of the moment, but Bruce did his best to respect my signals. Reluctantly, he removed his hands and moved to a covered basket warming beside the fireplace.

“I bet you’re hungry,” he said, smoothing over what I’m sure he felt was a gentle rejection. “And have I got a special surprise for you.”

A special surprise? Like Inga Berg’s special surprise on that rooftop? I suddenly thought.

I closed my eyes. God, I wanted to strangle Quinn. Because of him, I knew too much — and not enough. And it was killing me.

“Actually, maybe the dinner can wait?” I said. “I’m really dying to get a tour of this place.”

“Really? It’s a huge mess.”

“I don’t care. I love these old places. I was admiring your exterior, you know, that’s why I was standing out there in the snow so long.”

“Thanks.” He cocked an eyebrow. “For admiring my exterior.”

I laughed. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.”

“Well, anyway, you weren’t kidding about this place being archetypal Federal.”

“Yeah. It’s hard to believe, but there are about three hundred of these Federal row houses still standing in lower Manhattan.”

“Three hundred?”

“Not all are in pristine condition, some have been altered almost beyond recognition. But many have maintained their integrity.”

“You’ve been working with the preservation society, I take it?”

“Yes. And they do good work. For this place, they’ve already finished the researching, documenting, and petitioning of officials. The New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission will most likely agree and grant this place its deserved landmark status. What most concerns me — and the Village Society for Historic Preservation — is that more than half of the three hundred Federal row houses have no protection at all. The other half either lie within the boundaries of an official historic district, or else they have individual landmark designation.”

“More than half are in jeopardy? You’re kidding!”

“They could be lost at any time.” Bruce looked away, disgusted. “What a waste.”

“Do you know what year this one was built?”

“1830. You know the history, right?”

I nodded. Back then, people residing in the crowded colonial enclaves near lower Manhattan’s ports were looking to escape the regular outbreaks of disease, including cholera and yellow fever, so they came up here. The Village was only two miles north, but it was a vastly different world for them, bucolic, with fresh air and space, and they began building in earnest.

“These small row houses were an escape, weren’t they?” I said.

Bruce looked around the room a little cryptically. “It’s been one for me.”

The remark seemed to my ears loaded with meaning. “How so?”

He held my gaze a moment, as if deciding whether to talk about what was on his mind. Instead, he shrugged. “So…what do you think of this room?”

I kept hold of his gaze. He was changing the subject. We both knew it. For the moment, I let it go. For the moment.

“The work’s fantastic,” I said. “The fireplace mantel especially. Is that marble?”

“No. It’s wood, made to look like marble.”

I rose and moved to the hearth, ran my hand along the smooth finish, which was an unusual color — a sort of orange-tinted gold with deep yellow blended in a way to give the impression of carved marble.

“Remarkable. And you’re telling me this is authentic Federal?”

“Damn straight. Federal period designers liked to bring light and bright colors into their living spaces — that coloring is authentic and so is the technique. Strangely enough, they liked to play with the look of wood like that, making it look either like stone, marble, or even wood of another species.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks, Clare.”

“So…how about that tour?”

He started by explaining that this large parlor room had been two rooms when he’d originally bought the place. He’d knocked down the wall because the house’s original Federal scheme, although calling for a front and rear parlor, provided a sliding door between the two that could be open, as it was now, to turn the two rooms into one larger space.

We glanced in the kitchen, which was a total mess, and I laughed when I saw the only two new and possibly working appliances were a small, office-size refrigerator and an espresso/cappuccino machine.

“I like your priorities,” I said, walking over to the large machine. “And it’s a Pavoni. Good taste.”

“I’ll be honest with you, it was a gift from a client. I haven’t figured out how to use it yet. No time to read the instructions, you know? But I did buy a bag of your espresso blend and I have whole milk in that little fridge.”

I smiled. “I’ll whip us up some after dinner — and give you a tutorial. Good?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s my business, buddy. Let me show off.”

“Then let me show off mine a little more for you. Okay?”

I nodded and he took my hand. On the stairs, he told me the third floor was the attic, which had once been used for servant’s quarters.

“At the moment, those rooms are pretty stark and filled with nothing but paint cans and building materials, so we’ll skip them for now. But I think you’ll like the second floor.”

The second floor had two bedrooms. The smaller one was obviously the “before” picture, with peeling wallpaper, a stained ceiling, broken moldings, and a hideous pink shag carpet, possibly circa 1970, over the wood floor.

“Oh, yuck.”

“I take that to mean you think I have my work cut out for me?”

“Yes. That’s the technical definition of yuck.”

The master bedroom, however, was nowhere near yuck. In fact, it had been as beautifully restored as the downstairs parlors. He’d uncovered the old fireplace, refinished and polished the wood floor, restored the ceiling and its moldings, and even started furnishing the bedroom with a four-poster bed and matching bureaus. In the corner, I noticed a workspace with a drawing board and shelves beside it, full of books and blueprints. Propped on one shelf was a map of the Village and SoHo covered with arrows of different colors and little colorful circles.

I wandered over, curious. “What are these arrows?”

“The green ones show the direction of the traffic flow. The red, blue, and yellow circles refer to sanitation pick-up schedules — its three times a week in Manhattan and twice in the boroughs.”

“Sanitation pick up?” I repeated, trying not to picture Sahara McNeil’s legs sticking out from under a ten-ton garbage truck. “Why would you need to know that?”

“Those big trucks can stop traffic dead. If my crew has exterior work or needs to move equipment in and out of a particular block, it’s better to do it on a day where we won’t have to worry about the city’s pick-up times — it’s been known to fluctuate from early morning to after dark.”

It sounded like a reasonable answer. Quinn couldn’t fault him for that. I wanted to ask him about Sahara, but since it had happened just this morning, I thought it might be better to wait.

Wandering over to his bookshelf, I skimmed the spines. “Oh, I see you have a big book on the New York subway stations here.”

He nodded. “I’m a fan of that restoration project. It was massive. All that gorgeous mosaic tile work.”

“Have you been in the Union Square station?” I asked as casually as possible.

“Sure.”

“Isn’t that the one where that poor woman jumped to her death at the beginning of the month?”

I watched him carefully. He looked away without expression. “Yeah. I’m sorry to say I knew Valerie. That was her name. Valerie Lathem.”

“I’m sorry, too. Were you good friends?”

“We dated a couple of weeks. She and I kind of mutually agreed we weren’t right for each other, and we said we’d remain friends. She booked my travel. Worked at an agency.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce.”

“I hated reading about what happened in the papers. Felt bad for her family.”

“Was she…depressed…or anything…when you two broke up?”

“Not at all. In fact, she even suggested I try her on-line dating service, SinglesNYC.”

I blinked in surprise. Valerie Lathem had sent Bruce to SinglesNYC? That’s how he must have hooked up with Inga. I filed that little piece of information away.

“She had everything to live for,” Bruce continued. “I don’t know why she…did what she did.”

I nodded. “Do you think it’s possible it wasn’t a suicide then?”

“What do you mean? Like an accident?”

“Or…something else. Could someone have wanted to hurt her?”

Bruce’s brow wrinkled. “What makes you say a thing like that?”

“Uh…just…I don’t know…. I guess I thought may be it didn’t add up. Young woman, just promoted, beautiful…”

“Those things are true about Valerie…but, to be honest, she didn’t strike me as having the kind of personality that would make someone want to push her onto subway tracks. She wasn’t a party girl per se, either…although she was a little naive. I’m sorry to say anything negative about her, but if you’re fishing as to why we decided to part ways, it had to do with the fact that her job ended at five o’clock, and my job never ended. You know how it is to run a business, right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, she didn’t. She wanted the kind of guy who’d be at the happy hour down the street at five fifteen every night. A guy who could jet off to the islands on a spur of the moment low-fare deal. I wasn’t that guy.”

I observed Bruce carefully as he spoke. He didn’t seem angry or guilty or disturbed as much as melancholy about the whole thing. He didn’t seem very evasive, either.

Okay, I thought, one down, two to go.

(And I still intended to follow up with him on the one time he had sounded evasive — when he talked about this place being “an escape.”)

I noticed there was an oak desk beside the drawing board. It was a roll-top, and it had been rolled completely down.

“Thanks for telling me about Valerie,” I said. “I’d really like to know more about you.”

Bruce nodded. “Likewise.”

I moved toward the roll-top desk. “This is a nice piece.”

“Thanks, unfortunately, the rolling cover sticks sometimes. But I like the look of it. I keep my laptop under there.”

“A computer?”

Detective Mike Quinn’s voice suddenly boomed in my head: The person who wrote that note to Inga used a Hewlett Packard DeskJet 840C. A small computer printer. Model 840C…

I cleared my throat. “Do you have a printer?”

“A computer printer? Yeah, sure. But the printer under that roll-top won’t impress you, its just a dinky thing I use for personal correspondence. I know what you want to see — the way I design digitally, right?”

“Uh…right.”

“Well, I can show off some of my fantastic software in a few weeks. But at the moment all my work equipment is in storage while my offices are moving from Westchester to Chelsea. Tonight, I’m afraid, it’s not part of your Federal house tour.”

Bruce took my hand and pulled me back out of the room. “Come on, our dinner’s going to get cold. You must be hungry by now.”

“Sure,” I said, letting him take me back downstairs.

What else could I do? I couldn’t force the issue of looking at his computer printer.

I would just have to figure out some other way of getting myself back into Bruce Bowman’s bedroom.