Through The Grinder

Matt rubbed the back of his neck, then shook his head. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

“It’s really the perfect opportunity,” I said, trying to sound encouraging as we crossed the busy street. “Torquemada said Todd blew off a member of the World Trade Center Commission, and that he runs on charm, right? So I’ll pretend to be another person from the WTCC, and while he charms the heck out of me, I’ll pump him for information.”

“What am I supposed to do while you’re, uh, pumping him?”

“You will wait outside. Torquemada said Todd had a problem with males in authority.”

“No, Clare. That’s really not a good idea.”

“Of course it is. If I’m not back in a reasonable amount of time — say thirty minutes — you can call the cops. You can even call Quinn. This isn’t his usual stomping grounds, but — ” I threw Matt a look. “I’m sure there’s a Krispy Kreme around here somewhere.”

Matteo returned my look but said nothing.

The sun was touching the horizon now, and streetlights were flickering on as we moved north up Thirty-third, a largely commercial area of auto body shops, steel finishers, furniture makers, and garages — closing up now or closed already.

In the distance, there were several tall loft-type manufacturing buildings, and they appeared to be at least half vacant. This was not a residential neighborhood, and no one had bothered to clear away the snow. It lay on the street and sidewalks in dirty layers. There were no stores, or diners, supermarkets or newsstands, either. As far as city living went, this was certainly the proverbial “urban frontier.”

As we moved past a vacant lot that some Hispanic teens were using as a ball field, I felt feral eyes watching us — and was suddenly regretting the decision to wear my brand new, thousand dollar, floor-length shearling. The chic coat was the perfect garment for garnering admiring glances in the streets of SoHo, but far from the smart thing to wear in Long Island City.

After the teens gave Matteo and me a second and third look, Matteo offered them a sneer of his own. They quickly returned to their game.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Clare, this it not a great neighborhood,” Matteo said evenly.

“If you can make a Jeep trip through bandit country to Jiga-Jiga, I think you can protect us both in the jungles of Long Island City.”

“In Africa I carry a gun.”

Twilight descended quickly as we turned right, into a narrow, dead-end alley between two tall manufacturing buildings. On our left, through three separate eight-foot, barbed-wire-topped chain link fences, a large black dog snarled at us. The building on our right — a six-story manufacturing and warehouse structure that covered nearly the entire block — had the same address as the one printed on the business card Torquemada had handed me.

“Here we are,” I announced brightly.

Matt grimly scanned the shadowy alley — still paved with its original cobblestones — and the dark windows on the buildings, through which no interior lights shone. “Yeah. Home sweet home.”

We walked to the far end of the dead-end block, stopping before a windowless steel door, a bare unlit bulb above it. In the last dying light of the day, I read the sign.

“Tod Studios. This must be the place, but I wonder why he misspelled his own name. His business card spells it ‘Todd’ with two D’s.”

“It isn’t a misspelling of his name,” Matteo replied. “Tod is the German word for death.”

“Oh.” I took another look at the strange door on the stark building and shrugged. “Well, on that note, I’ll say good-bye.”

Matt tugged me back by the sleeve of my shearling. “Let’s synchronize our watches. Thirty minutes,” he said, fingering his Breitling.

“Got it. Now get out of sight.”

From a hidden vantage point, Matteo watched as I pressed the button beside the door. I heard a loud, warehouse-style bell echo through the massive, empty structure.

It took so long for anyone to respond that I thought I’d be spending my whole thirty minutes just standing there, in front of that door. After about ten minutes, I heard footsteps. The bare bulb above the door suddenly glared to life and, with a shrill metallic squeal, the door swung open.

A slight blonde man with tousled hair and sharp features stood in the doorway. Though tall, he was so slim I decided I probably outweighed him, and his complexion was pale and unhealthy looking. But there was both intelligence and energy behind his sky-blue eyes, and he seemed open and friendly. In fact, the only unsettling thing about Seth Todd was the fact that his hands and arms were stained with a wet, dark red liquid all the way up to the elbows.

“Gosh, I hope that’s paint,” I said.

To my surprise, the man laughed — and so did I.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“You can if you’re Seth Martin Todd.”

He nodded. “At your service, and you are — ?”

“Clare,” I answered. “I understand you submitted a proposal to the World Trade Center Commission?”

“Pleased to meet you, Clare.” Seth Todd thrust out his hand to shake mine. Then he noticed it was still covered in blood-red paint.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. Then we both laughed again.

A perfect romantic comedy moment, I thought, except for the fact that this guy murdered his wife.

“Come in,” Seth Todd said, using his scuffed Skechers to open the door wide enough to admit me.

With a quick, uneasy glance over my shoulder, my eyes found Matteo’s silhouette, far down the alleyway, lurking in a doorway. I turned toward Todd and entered.

“Go on inside,” he said, directing me to a large, open door with his elbow. “I’ll join you after I clean up.”

I crossed the threshold and found myself in a large, barren industrial space with oil-stained concrete floors, a high ceiling, and visible plumbing and heating ducts running up the plaster-free brick walls.

This area of the warehouse looked like it had once been a loading dock. Two huge garage doors in the wall faced Forty-third Avenue, and a cold draft leaked through the joints.

Though there were tall windows lining both sides of the room, strategically placed in the days before electricity to admit both the morning and afternoon sun, it was now getting downright dark outside, and much of the massive interior space was slipping into shadows.

Now that I was inside the building, I understood why there were no interior lights visible through the windows. Todd used only a tiny corner of the massive space for his work area, and only that part of the room was lit — by three naked light bulbs hanging on long cords from the ceiling.

There were several chairs — none of them matched — a few stools, and several easels with various paintings displayed. Some were abstract, but not all. There was an oil of an old Gothic church, and another of a farmhouse that reminded me of Andrew Wyeth’s work.

Todd’s current work in progress rested on a large easel in the center of the workspace, a six-by ten-foot canvas covered in various shades of scarlet — from the color of bright blood freshly spilled, to the dull crimson of a new scab, to the dark brown blot of an old bloodstain. Though abstract, the elements came together to evoke an emotional impact. The artist showed real genius in his selection and arrangement of the hues, shapes, and textures.

“Would you like some tea?” Seth Todd asked, appearing at my side with a steaming silver pot and two white ceramic cups.

“Thank you,” I said as he set the cups on a low wooden table and poured.

“Please take off your coat. Sit down.”

I slipped off the shearling and threw it across the back of an overstuffed armchair. He pulled over a battered chrome bar stool with a black cushioned seat and sat across from me. I sampled the tea and found it savory — a Darjeeling with a subtle fruity tang.

“I actually prefer coffee,” Seth Todd said apologetically, his Skecher heels resting easily on the bottom cross