“So, what happens now?” Susan asked. She sounded numb, dazed. I couldn’t blame her.
“You stay here for a few days while we sort everything out,” I said. “First thing is you give me your hotel key and we get your things out of your room and bring them back here.”
“You can’t go there.”
“No, but my boss can. They’ve never seen him, and even if they’re watching the hotel, they wouldn’t know what room you’re in.”
“Unless someone at the front desk told them.”
“If there’s anyone watching the room, Leo won’t go in. He knows what he’s doing.”
“What if they’re waiting inside the room?”
“He’s an ex-cop, Susan. He can take care of himself better than either of us.”
“Okay.”
“Next, I’m going to need your help. I need to know how Miranda ended up at the Sin Factory. You know people in this business. I want you to make some calls for me.” I explained my theory about how Miranda and Jocelyn had gotten started, gave her the timeframe and the geography, and asked her to find out anything she could. “Where did they work, what did they do, when were they there – anything.”
“I’ll help if I can,” she said, “but I’m not sure I’ll be able to find anything.”
“I think you will.”
“I’ve worked in a lot of clubs,” she said, “but there have got to be ten times as many that I’ve never heard of.”
“You probably know people who know them.” She looked uncertain. “You know more than I do, anyway. Please. Just do the best you can. It’s important.”
“All right,” she said. “And what will you be doing while I’m calling all the strip clubs in America and your partner is breaking into my hotel room?”
“I’ll be talking to Murco Khachadurian,” I said.
Chapter 13
I called Leo from the hallway outside my mother’s apartment. It was after seven and normally he’d be heading to Port Authority soon to catch the 7:47 bus back home, but there was another bus at 9:40, and if he missed that there was a train. I explained what I needed him to do and told him I’d be at the office in twenty minutes to give him the key.
“Every day I seem to be getting more involved in this project of yours,” he said. “Don’t I remember you telling me when all this started that you didn’t need my help?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t need it. I said I wasn’t asking for it.”
“And now you’re asking?”
“It’ll take you twenty minutes. Not even. Fifteen.” He didn’t say anything. “Yes, I’m asking.”
“Should I take a gun?” he said.
“It’s just picking up a couple of bags from a hotel room.”
He thought about it. “I’ll take a gun,” he said. “You probably should, too.”
I didn’t much like carrying a gun, but there were times when it was called for. “Yes. I probably should.”
I pushed the button for the elevator, and while I was waiting, a woman came out of 14-D carrying an armload of cardboard hatboxes. She looked a little like Mrs. Knechtel, thin brown hair framing an oval face seamed with tiny wrinkles. A sister, I guessed, or maybe a close cousin. She tried to push the door to the garbage room open with her hip. I opened it for her and held it while she lowered the boxes to the floor. Two framed posters were already there, leaning against the wall.
“I heard what happened,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s just so sudden,” she said. “And there are so many things to go through. I don’t know where to start.”
I knew how she felt.
We traded, the key for the gun, and then each headed off in our own direction: Leo to the Martinique on Broadway and Thirty-second, I to my apartment. I watched him through the back window of my cab, saw him with his arm raised to hail one of his own. In the midwinter darkness, in his heavy overcoat and wool cap, Leo suddenly looked old to me, too.
There was no one walking in the street as we pulled up to my building, and just a few cars were parked at the curb. The front door was glass and the hallway beyond was well lit. I could see all the way in to the stairs, and there was no one there. But there were plenty of places someone could stand and not be visible. Behind the door leading down to the basement was one choice; the second, third, or fourth floor landings were others. And there was always inside my apartment itself. I’d installed a Medeco lock and a police bar, but neither was a guarantee against intruders, especially when the building’s windows were so insecure.
I thought about going around to the back, up the fire escape, and in through the window myself, but apart from the noise it would have made and the fact that anyone in my apartment would have a clear shot at me long before I’d have one at him, I just didn’t have it in me tonight.
I gripped the gun in my right hand inside my jacket pocket and readied the front door key in my left. No one came while I was opening the door or, once I was in the vestibule next to the mailboxes, while I waited for it to swing closed. No one stopped me on the stairs. No one fired down on me from above or came up behind me from below. I took each flight slowly, pausing at each landing to release my grip on the gun, wipe my palm, and re-grip. The stairwell was silent, aside from the muffled sounds of television coming from behind some apartment doors.
When I got to the fourth floor, I listened at my door for a full minute before unlocking it and cautiously pushing it open with my foot. I had the gun out, held before me in both hands to steady my aim if I needed it. I let the door slam shut behind me and quickly turned left and right to look into the kitchen and the bathroom. No one was standing behind the shower curtain or behind the kitchen door. There wasn’t room for anyone in the apartment’s one closet, but I checked anyway. I turned in a circle, trying to spot anything that looked like it had been disturbed. Nothing did. I lowered the gun, went back to the front door and locked it.
Murco Khachadurian’s number was where I’d left it, next to the piece of paper with Kirsch’s and Mastaduno’s. I slipped both pieces of paper into my pocket along with whatever cash I had in my desk drawer. I unplugged the cell phone charger from the wall, coiled up the cord and put the whole thing in my jacket pocket. No way of knowing when I’d be back here next. What else might I need? I looked around. The Serner files were still lying on the bed. I slipped the rubber band back over them and put them under the bed. Not much of a hiding place, but it also wasn’t the end of the world if they got stolen.
What else? I could change my clothes. I could take another hot shower. I could try to get some sleep, start with a fresh head tomorrow. These were all reasonable things to do, and they were all just excuses to put off what I had to do.
I dug out the cell phone number and dialed it.
His voice, when it finally came, sounded hoarse, like he’d spent the night talking in a crowded bar or the past twenty years smoking two packs a day.
“Hello, who is this?”
“Mr. Khachadurian?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“My name is John Blake,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
“ Blake? You’re calling me? How did you get this number?”
“It sounds like you know who I am,” I said. “That means you probably know I’m looking into the death of Miranda Sugarman.”
Silence. Then: “I can’t talk to you now. I’m with company. I’ll call you back.”
“Why don’t you tell them it’s a personal call and you have to take it,” I said.
“Don’t push me,” he said. “We’ll talk when I’m ready to talk.” The line was disconnected.
I put the cell phone down on my desk and watched it. Like the proverbial pot, it didn’t boil. But that was the
