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
