Dirt

Stone had a thought; he called Dino.

“Yeah, Bacchetti,” Dino said.

“It’s Stone.”

“Hey, you must be making Bob Cantor rich. I got a call from somebody who wanted a reference for renting an apartment up here somewhere.”

“Yeah, he’s moving up in the world. Listen, Dino, have you had any burglaries reported recently where just about the only thing taken was cash?”

“Burglaries? How the fuck would I know; I don’t mess with that kind of shit.”

“Yeah, but your guys do. Would you talk to somebody on the burglary detail and ask about it”

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Thanks, friend.” He hung up.

“What makes you think he’s doing burglaries?” Cantor asked.

“Just a hunch. Whoever burgled Arrington’s place took only cash; the guy who hit me over the head took cash – and my Rolex. Whoever capped Arnie Millman in the alley outside Dryer’s – pardon me, your apartment – took cash.”

“You think all of those are the same guy, then?”

“Maybe. Maybe two guys.”

“Two? One of ’em’s Power, then?”

“One of my clients was being followed by a guy who looked like Dryer, but she said wasn’t Dryer, judging from the photograph, and yet they fit the same description. I got a tip that a guy from L.A. who might be behind the DIRT thing fits the description. Now we’ve got Dryer repeatedly calling a guy in L.A. who fits the description, and who left L.A. recently. Maybe he’s in New York now.”

“Brothers?”

“Could be.”

The phone rang.

“It’s Dino. What do you know about these burglaries?”

“What burglaries, Dino?”

“The burglaries you called me about.”

“I called to ask you about burglaries. You find some?”

“Eight in the Nineteenth where only cash was taken, or cash and men’s’ jewelry, watches, that kind of stuff, all of them in high-end buildings. What do you know about this?”

“I’m just chasing a wild hunch. Find a copy of Vanity Fair, the new issue, and look for an ad for Spirit men’s cologne. There’s a guy’s picture in it; he’s been calling himself Jonathan Dryer. Get one of your burglary detail to show it to the eight victims and see if anybody recognizes him. If they do, I’d love to have a name and address.”

“Why do you think this guy’s connected to these burglaries?”

“Because I think he went into Arrington’s place and took cash, and he may have been the guy who did me, who also took cash. He’s an old boyfriend of Arrington’s.”

“Well, she must know where to find him.”

“He moved out and didn’t leave a forwarding address, and get this: He lived in the apartment next to the alley where Arnie Millman bought it. Interesting?”

“Very.”

“One of your guys must have interviewed him that night. When I went around there he said he’d been talking to the cops. Will you find out who it was and what notes he took?”

“I’ll do that.”

“And I’d like to hear about it.”

“You will.” Dino hung up.

“Bob, you call the cologne manufacturer, and see if you can track down Dryer through his modeling agency.”

“Okay, Stone; sounds like you’re putting something together here,” Cantor said.

“Maybe,” Stone said. “We’ll see.”

“I forget,” Cantor said, “did I mention that Dryer had a hotshot computer, a laser printer, and a fax machine? Maybe this is DIRT?”

“Maybe paydirt,” Stone said.

Chapter 39

The following morning, Stone and Arrington lay in his bed, watching the Today show and eating breakfast.

“I checked out Dryer,” Stone said. “He’s bolted from his apartment.”

“I hope he’s bolted from the planet,” Arrington said.

“Do you mind telling me a little more about him?” He was treading carefully; he knew this was a sensitive subject.

“What do you want to know?”

“How’d you meet him?”

“At somebody’s house in East Hampton, in August.”

“Whose house?”

“A photographer’s.”

“A friend of Dryer’s?”

“No, Jonathan didn’t know the host; he came with somebody else, I think. I can’t remember who.”

“How many times did you see him after that?”

“Two or three times a week, I guess; we both had a lot else going on.”

“What did Dryer have going on?”

“I assume he was hustling for some sort of living, although he always seemed to have money.”

“When you went out somewhere, how did Dryer pay?”

“On the occasions when I didn’t pay, he always paid in cash.”

“Never with a credit card or check?”

“No, always cash. I asked him once why he always carried so much cash, and he said he played poker a couple of times a week and always won.”

“Did he say who he played with?”

“No.”

“Did you ever know, specifically, what he was doing on any night when he wasn’t seeing you?”

She sipped her orange juice and shook her head. “Never; I always had the feeling that he had at least one other complete life going, maybe more than one.”

“Did you ever see him with other people, or always alone?”

“Usually just the two of us, but I took him to a few parties.”

“Did he know people at these parties?”

“Never; I was always introducing him to people I knew.”

“Were you ever in the apartment on East Ninety-first?”

“A couple of times. More often we were at my place.”

“Can you describe the furnishings of the apartment for me?”

She frowned. “I guess you’d say it was the typical single-guy place, but of a younger guy than Jonathan.”

“How so?”

“Well, the furnishings were inexpensive, off-the-shelf things, the sort of stuff you could pick up at the Door Store or Crate and Barrel. There were posters, but no pictures – original art, I mean. There was a cheap stereo and a small TV and a computer; he had sort of a home office. Nothing to speak of in the kitchen, just the bare minimum of plates and glasses and pots and pans. Nothing much ever in the fridge, except breakfast stuff and beer. Jonathan