We had a feijoada complete in a Brazilian restaurantnightclub on West Forty-fifth. I ordered champagne, and after we ate we danced a few sets. She felt good in my arms.
'to getting even,' she said, toasting me with her glass.
'And to money,' she added.
'This time it's going to work. I know it…'
At eleven o'clock we split up. She went back to our room to call Mrs.
Z, while I went downtown to collect my mail.
I hesitated outside my building. Nassau Street at that hour was as deserted as it should have been, and I didn't notice anyone lingering about. I emptied my mailbox, stuffed to its top, then rode up in the elevator. Upstairs I checked around my door. The ruined paint from the lye attack was prominently visible, but the door itself looked to be intact.
When I opened up, there were two slips of paper lying on the floor.
Messages from Scotto: 'Urgent I talk to you. Call me when you get back.' and 'Still waiting to hear from you!' I crumpled them up, locked the door behind me, then rewound my answering machine. I dumped my mail on my desk, and, as I listened to my messages, started to sort it, throwing away the junk.
In my wastebasket there were remnants of the Chinese carryout dinner I'd eaten just before I'd gone to see Rakoubian. The bag was swarming with roaches. I carried it to the hall and dumped it down the compactor chute.
My phone messages weren't all that interesting. One from my gallery, another from a collector who wanted to buy a print of my PietA. Nothing, thank God, from the goon who'd threatened me before. But there were four messages from Scott@the first two pleaded, the third was slightly irritable, and the last, left two days before, expressed considerable anger that I hadn't called.
I was deep into my mail, sorting the -bills, when my telephone rang. The sound startled me. I switched on my machine to screen the call. It was Scotto, and the first words he said were: 'I know you're there. Pick up.'
I hesitated.
'Pick up, goddamnit!' He sounded mean.
I picked up.
'Hi, Sal,' I said. 'Just got in.'
'I know.'
'How do you know?'
'Guy works for me saw the light go on.'
'You've got my place watched? What the hell's going on?'
'A murder investigation's going on. When're you going to stop playing dumb?'
Okay,' I said.
'Now, why don't you cool down?'
'I mean it, Geof-Aon't mess with me. I'll be there in half an hour.
Buzz me in.'
I considered calling Frank for advice, but he'd warned me not to call him from the loft. Kim was only to make her initial calls from our motel; after that we were to use public phones. Well, I thought, maybe it's better this way, since I have to deal with Scotto anyhow. But he sounded pissed off, which made me wonder if there'd been developments and if I was in some kind of trouble.
It was over an hour before he showed up, and when he did he came on like a bully.
'Where have you been?' he snapped.
'I don't think I have to answer that.' He glared at me.
All right, I've been hiding out.'
'Someplace pretty nice, looks like to me. Nice dark tan you got.
'What's the trouble, Sal?'
'I already told you.'
'You told me there's a murder investigation. I already knew about that.'
'Dave Ramos wants to go to the D.A., have you designated a material witness.'
'Which means?'
'you go before the grand jury. Then you talk or else.'
'Fine. I'd like to talk. I'll tell them what I told you: my girlfriend's missing since the night her roOMmate's murdered. In the meantime my life's threatened, and someone throws lye at my eyes. When the investigating officers refuse me protection, I feel I have a right to leave town and hide o-ut.'
'Guess what, Geoffrey? You're annoying me.'
'And you're,bugging me, Sal. So why don't the two of us cut the shit. ' 'Tell me where you've been.'
'I don't want to tell you.'
'I know you've seen her.' He gestured toward my reconstructed serial portraits of Kim.
'What makes you say that?'
'I smell it.'
'Maybe your nose is off.'
'Maybe it's not. Maybe I Smell her all over you. Maybe you've been eating out her snatch and the fumes are still coming off your face.'
I gave him a severe look of disgust.
'I thought you were a classy guy.'
'You thought wrong-I'm a cop.' I hesitated. I knew I had to give him something.
'If I did decide to tell you anything, Sal, it would be that she doesn't know who killed Shadow.'
'How about why Shadow was killed?'
'She doesn't know that either.'
He went quiet, just stared at me. When he spoke again it was with confidence.
'We found that Mrs. Z you told us about.'
That worried me, though I tried not to show it.
'What did she have to say?' I asked.
'You won't tell me nothin'. Why should I tell you?'
'Let's trade.'
'I'm a cop. I don't have to trade.'
'Suit yourself,' I said.
'Now, if you don't mind I've got mail to answer here.'
He groaned.
'You're acting like a real asshole.'
'That's the story of my life.'
'Don't be a sucker.'
'What do you want?'
'Kimberly Yates. I want to talk to her.'
'She won't talk to you. Anyway she's out of state.'
'Which state? Okay, forget it. I won't ask you that. I'll ask this: last time we talked you were sure about one thing, that her building super didn't do it. Tell me why you were so sure?'
'Just a hunch.'
'A hunch, huh? You know, you really are a jerk.' He knew something-I could tell: he had an I-know-it look on his face.
'Everyone thinks we're stupid. Stupid cops Thick heads. Lugs. Who else would go into this kind of work? Got news for you, pal. A few of us are bright. Dave Ramos, for instance. He gets interested in something, he starts looking around, and when he does he's very methodical. Ever hear of VIA?'
'What's that?'
'Visual Investigative Aid. An approach to criminal investigation. A way to chart what you know and what you don't, useful when you have a complicated case. You chart this stuff, then you draw lines in between, and sooner or later you start to see connections. You see what you need to know to put the thing together. Knowing what you need to know-in police work that's half the battle. '
