anymore. They were for folk who did the cooking and washing,” she said, “I was counting on them forgetting about the back door, you know?”
Regina led me from room to room. The place was immaculate. It had been cleaned up and cleaned out, the floor polished, the paint fresh.
“This looks like somebody fixed it all up,” I said.
“That’s what I wanted to show you. Somebody who’s thinking of selling you’d say.”
“Right.”
“So I called that niece of Amahl’s that lives upstate, and she didn’t know much, they weren’t close, but she told me the will was still in, what do you call it-probate?-and ain’t nothing can be done until that’s fixed.”
“Does she know this apartment has been cleaned out?”
“Sure. I told her. She said that was fine, Carver Lennox told her he was getting ready to sell it and he was a big help to her. He took care of everything.”
“She’s going to sell it to him?”
“She says she don’t know, it’s not clear who this place belongs to, seeing as Amahl didn’t specify nobody in his will, he just went too fast to do it, so it’s all in a kind of mess. But I’m sure Carver has his eye on it.”
“You think Mr. Washington meant you to have it?”
“Could be,” she said. “I’d rather have him alive, tell the truth.”
“Anything else?”
Regina led me back to the kitchen and through the back door, into the hall near the back stairs. Right then I heard something; so did she. Somebody was coming toward us, along the hall. I could hear him talking on his cell phone. Fear crossed Regina’s face.
“Go home,” I said. “Just walk to the elevator like nothing happened, just go on. He won’t hurt you. I’ll be right here. I’ll wait.”
“I’m scared of that man,” she said, as Lennox got closer, his voice louder.
“It will be fine. Go on.”
“Too many old folk dying in this building,” said Regina. “I don’t want to die.”
CHAPTER 50
Who was the guy I saw slip out of the Sugar Hill Club and into the ice-cold night? It was after I’d left Regina McGee at the Armstrong. I pulled up across the street from the club and I saw him, the figure in a dark jacket, hood up, emerging from the club door. In a spill of white from the streetlight, he appeared, looked pale as a ghost, then was gone into the shadow. Was he black? Hard to tell. The glistening tarmac, the ice, the light, played tricks. Light turned black people white and white people dark.
A thief in the night. The phrase came to me as I crossed the street. My head throbbed. I needed sleep, but I felt wide awake, adrenaline roaring through my body. If Carver Lennox showed, I’d get it out of him. It was him. He had killed Lionel Hutchison. He was involved with the others. He wanted the apartments. He wanted the building.
It was almost midnight when I got inside the club. The place was empty except for a young couple, her in a yellow sweater and sparkly earrings like little Christmas trees, him in a red plaid shirt, sitting at a table near the deserted bandstand, holding hands over a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Canned music came over the sound system. I didn’t know the guy behind the bar, but at the far end, last seat near the wall, sat Carver Lennox.
He saw me and raised a hand in greeting.
I climbed on the stool next to his, wondering if this was the man who had murdered Lionel Hutchison.
When Lennox had found me earlier at Amahl Washington’s apartment on the ninth floor, he had been cool about it. I had expected a fight, but he didn’t ask why I was there, just told me he’d picked up the message I wanted to meet and asked if midnight worked for me. He wanted to help his daughter with her homework. She was upstairs at his apartment, he said. Said the Sugar Hill Club was fine. He’d meet me.
Now he ordered a refill on his whiskey. “What would you like, Artie?”
“I’ll get my own.” I asked for a beer.
“How can I help?” said Lennox.
When the bartender put the bottle in front of me, I realized I was thirsty. My head hurt. I was dog tired.
“I’ve been thinking about all of the shit going down at the Armstrong, and I figure you’re the guy to paint me the picture,” I said. “Open a window on it for me, Carver. You want to do that?”
Carver ignored my question. “You all right, man?” he said. “That beating you took in the storage room, I’m sorry about that. It’s the kind of thing we have to change. That damn back door is always open, there’s always people in and out for smokes, and garbage, and to get their cars. It’s not the way you run a building, you know, I tell them over and over. Only Diaz gets it. But he can’t do everything alone.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. You have a different impression?”
“He’s very attentive.”
“You mean he eavesdrops?” Lennox laughed.
“Isn’t that what you pay him for?”
“I pay him to make my building a better place.”
“Right.”
“Help me here, Artie. You think Diaz has his hand out more than normal? I need to know.”
I didn’t answer for a minute. I downed the beer.
“I didn’t come to talk about Diaz. Your problem,” I said.
“What do you need?”
“You tell me.”
He leaned close, arms on the bar, hand gripping the whiskey glass. His eyes were bloodshot. In the whites of his eyes were tiny threads of red. In the corners was more blood. I was so close to Lennox, I thought I could see the blood in his left eye leaking.
“You don’t think I care that Lionel died?” Lennox said. He was pretty wasted. He had been drinking, a lot, I realized.
“Do you?”
“He was my friend, so I fucking care. It’s also bad news for my building.”
“Your building?”
“You fucking know what I mean,” he said, his voice low now, but angry.
“What about Marianna Simonova? And Amahl Washington?”
“They were old, man. They were old and sick and they died.”
I kept my mouth shut, and my silence got to him.
“You think they were murdered, too?” he said. “You think it’s connected? Is that what you think?” The horror that crossed his face seemed real.
I ordered another beer.
“Should I have another drink?” It was rhetorical. He gestured for another, his third, he said. Or fourth. Raised it. Drank it.
“So how many apartments you got empty, Cal?”
“There’s some,” he said. “Why?”
“Let’s say I’m a fucking financial idiot. You’re planning to turn the Armstrong into a new co-op, call it the Barack Obama, that right?”
“You don’t like our new president, man? That’s your problem.” Lennox sounded hostile.
“I’m guessing the way you got it structured, you need a majority of owners who will go along. Ready to play your game when you ask five grand for maintenance, or else sell up, right? You already got your hands on a few, isn’t that right, Cal?”
“Shares, yeah.”
“What?”
