I was thinking about another cookie and telling myself I didn’t really want it when Ray and Elaine came downstairs. “Show Ray what their artist came up with,” she said, and I got out our copy of their sketch and unfolded it. Ray arranged the two sketches side by side on the coffee table, and Elaine said, “You see? All the difference in the world.” That was a stretch. Considered together, the two pictures looked like two different views of the same man. I hadn’t seen the fellow, so I couldn’t say which was a better likeness. Elaine had, and as far as she was concerned there was no comparison.
“Ray’s drawing looks less generic,” I allowed. “It’s hard to point to anything and say it’s different, but something’s different.”
“The affect is different,” Elaine said. “The other one feel’s like something you could put together with an advanced version of that kid’s toy.”
“Mr. Potato Head,” Bitsy said.
“I used to love Mr. Potato Head,” Elaine said. “I couldn’t understand why my mother wanted the potato back so she could fix it for dinner. I started crying. My father took me on his lap and told me there would always be another potato.”
“There always will,” I said.
“Somehow I used to find that reassuring. This sketch looks just like him, Ray. You know how I can tell? Because I can’t stand to look at it.
I get sick to my stomach.”
My reaction was less extreme, but I did get a funny feeling looking at Ray’s drawing. He’d managed to convey not just what Elaine had seen in the face but how she felt about it now that she knew what the man had done. It was in the eyes, I guess, but whatever it was there was something chilling about it.
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I said, “He looks familiar.”
“Maybe because of the time you spent staring at the other sketch.”
“Maybe.”
She turned to me. “Are you serious? Do you know him?”
“The best I can do is say he looks familiar. Maybe I saw him on the street, or in the subway. Him or somebody with a similar look to him.
You see so many people in this town, so many glancing images.”
“But you’re pretty good at paying attention to what you see.” Cop training, I suppose. I told Ray we’d want to make copies of the drawing, and was there a place in the neighborhood? He gave me a look and went upstairs, drawing in hand, and returned with a folder holding a dozen copies, plus the original pencil sketch in a manila envelope.
As we prepared to go, he took me aside. “I’ve never seen her like this,” he said. “She’s scared to death of this guy.” We’d have taken the subway home, the L and the A, but Ray called a car service. A good thing about living in Brooklyn is that you can do that, while the downside is that you have to, as you’re not often able to flag a cruising taxi. Our driver was cheerful and talkative, but when we didn’t respond he took the hint and lapsed into a wounded silence.
When he pulled up in front of the Parc Vendome I got out first and looked around before I helped Elaine out of the cab.
The doorman on duty was one of the regular crew, his service there dating back almost to the year we moved in. I established that no one had come around looking for us since he came on duty, and told him not to send anybody up to our apartment.
“Unless it’s TJ,” Elaine said.
I amended my instructions. But no one else, I said, no matter what credentials the person might show. He could have a badge, I said. He could wear a blue uniform. That didn’t mean he was a cop.
We went upstairs, and I said, “I just realized what I’m doing. I’m like a general, preparing for the previous war.”
“Motley,” she said.
She meant not the garb jesters wear but a man named James Leo Motley, who got past her doorman wearing the uniform and carrying All the Flowers Are Dying
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the badge and baton of an auxiliary policeman he’d murdered. He was a cop, so why would the doorman think to turn him away? He’d stabbed Elaine, and she’d come close to dying.
That was—Christ, it was fifteen years ago, and Motley, who’d menaced us both, had served too to bring us together after about that many years apart. I suppose that meant we owed him something, but I was glad we’d never be able to pay it, grateful beyond measure that the son of a bitch was dead.
Now we had a new one on our hands, resourceful enough to come in uniform, resourceful enough to think of something else.
When we got off the elevator I checked the hallway, then left her standing in it while I checked the apartment. I told her she could come in, and once she did I locked the door.
She said, “I guess I won’t go to the shop again until this is over.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ve got someone coming tomorrow afternoon. A Russian woman, or maybe she’s Ukrainian. As if it makes a difference. She’s got some icons she’d like to sell, and I wouldn’t mind buying them if they’re au-thentic. Or even if
