house was on the right-hand side, close to the corner, a narrow, three-storey over-basement Anglo-Italianate design with an antique black door.
Joe rang the bell and spoke into the intercom. ‘Mr Blake? It’s Detectives Joe Lucchesi, Danny Markey.’ They held their badges up to a small security camera mounted in the right-hand corner above the door. After several seconds, they heard a series of muted beeps from inside. They waited, then counted the halting slide of bolts that ran from the top of the door to its base. The door opened inwards, but was hinged on the same side as the keyhole. Joe and Danny exchanged glances. No-one appeared. Joe pushed the door gently and walked inside. His chest was hit with a constricting spasm as he took in the vast white expanse around him. Suspended from the ceiling by thick steel cables were evenly spaced rows of six-foot tall, two-foot wide white perspex bookshelves. White, high-gloss floor tiles shone with the reflected overkill of hundreds of shelf-mounted spotlights. Joe stepped forward and felt a surge of regret. Every book title was a desperate search for relief, a net cast wide across disciplines; acupuncture, angels, auras, Buddhism, meditation, reflexology, reiki, yoga. Joe and Danny hovered, emotional intruders. They turned to the man who didn’t look like he’d found an answer in any of these pages.
Blake raised his hands. ‘Don’t worry. I have The DaVinci Code too.’ He flashed a lopsided smile from the right-hand side of his mouth. A small pool of saliva leaked onto his lower lip. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief. ‘But codes…’ He gestured to the security panel by the door. ‘I’m sure someone could… well, maybe that’s not a great leap.’
Joe smiled.
‘Anyway, hello.’ Blake stretched out his hand from behind the door.
‘Thanks for letting us come over,’ said Joe, shaking it firmly.
Blake was lean and stooped. Whatever he had been through had left his face older and shadowed, his most striking feature, loose flesh hanging under dark, weary eyes. The skin on the right side of his chin was lumpy and uneven. He was dressed in baggy chinos and a lightweight black turtleneck. A red baseball cap was pulled low on his head. Panic flickered in his eyes. Danny followed his gaze to the open door and quickly closed it. Blake walked past him and ground the bolts back into place.
‘Follow me,’ he said when he was finished.
He led them through the complex of shelves and through heavy white double doors into a sparse and spacious living room. The floors were polished oak, the walls soft yellow. There was no dining table, no sideboard. Heavy green drapes hung down by the windows.
Blake sat on a white sofa facing the door and gestured to the matching one opposite. Danny and Joe sat down.
‘You’ve got a nice home here,’ said Joe.
‘Thank you,’ said Blake. ‘Can I offer you something to drink, coffee…’
‘Coffee would be great,’ said Joe.
‘Yeah,’ said Danny. ‘Thanks. Black for both of us.’
Blake paused, but got up and walked across the room to a discreet door that led into a dim hallway. Joe stood up and wandered over to a vase of dried white flowers that stood by the huge, empty fireplace. Just behind it, Joe noticed the corner of a picture frame. He bent down and picked it up. In it was a faded colour photograph that looked like it was taken in the eighties – an older couple, the man thin and stern, the woman chubby, heavily made up and with a sparkle in her eye.
‘My parents,’ said Blake, coming back in, smiling at the photo. ‘They adored each other.’ He set a tray on an ottoman between them with three mugs of black coffee.
‘How long have you been living here?’ said Joe.
‘All my life. My parents both passed away. I have no siblings.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I make jewelry.’
‘Did you make that?’ said Joe, pointing to a black leather cuff Blake was wearing.
Blake nodded.
‘My son wears things like that.’
‘I have more up in my-’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe. ‘I didn’t mean-’
‘It’s not a problem. It’d be a pleasure.’
Joe smiled. ‘Thanks, but he needs to get a handle on his schoolwork before I come back with any gifts for him.’
‘Well, let me know if he does.’
‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘So, where do you work?’
‘Here.’ He gestured upstairs.
‘So does that mean customers come to your home or suppliers or whoever? I’m just trying to get a feel for people who would know you, know the house.’
‘I have a small client base. I design high-end pieces, made to order. I will meet with a client at their home, discuss designs, go away and create. None of them come here.’
‘OK. Suppliers?’
‘I get the leather sent here. Metals and diamonds I go to 47th Street.’
‘You have cleaning staff? Delivery people coming through?’
‘No. I’m the cleaning staff.’
‘For the whole house?’
‘I got a lot of time on my hands,’ said Blake.
‘Have you ever been the victim of another crime?’ said Joe.
‘Like what?’
‘A burglary, a robbery?’
Blake shook his head. ‘No – why?’
‘Or even had your wallet stolen?’ said Joe.
Blake frowned. ‘No. Never. Why?’
‘Just wondering. OK. Do you think you could talk us through what happened that night?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Blake.
‘You take your time,’ said Danny. ‘We think you’ll be able to do it. We really do. That’s why we’re here.’
Blake took off his baseball cap, smoothed down the black, wiry hair that bounced up, then put it back on. He took a deep breath. ‘It was Monday night. March 13th, I think. I was home watching a movie… two movies. Back to back.’
‘What about that morning?’ said Joe. ‘I’m going to need as much detail as I can about what you were doing that day, where you went, who you spoke with… I’m sorry, but it’s important. If the perp chose you, it could be that by some twist of fate, a change in your routine meant you crossed paths with him. Monday, you stop for coffee at the deli outside your apartment building, Tuesday you hold off ‘til you get to the subway, right next to the killer’s hotdog stand. You get the picture.’
‘OK,’ said Blake. ‘I got up. And I started work immediately. I didn’t go out that day. And no-one called. I get so absorbed in work sometimes, I lose track of time. Which, I guess wouldn’t make me the most reliable witness.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t even tell you what time he called to my door.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Danny. ‘Neither of us know, here, what details might help. That’s why we’ll go back and forth with some questions and answers and see what comes up. How about that?’
Blake nodded. ‘I’m sorry. This is so hard.’
‘I understand that,’ said Danny. ‘But I’m betting you’ll feel a hell of a lot better once you’ve got it all out.’
‘It was late,’ said Blake. ‘He… he called to my door, saying he was a realtor. He was admiring the building and asked to talk to me about selling or wanted to tell me about house prices in the area…’
‘And you let him in.’
‘Yes. I let him in. He had material from Acheson amp; Grant, the realtors on Montague Street… and yes, I know, it sounds kind of dumb.’ He took in what looked like it would be a deep breath, but ended up halting and shallow.
‘It’s the way we are,’ said Danny, ‘most of us want to trust people. Even I want that.’
