A Cruel Season for Dying (20 page)

G
eoffrey Westlake’s bedroom was a showplace, a bigger, more expensive version of David Milne’s room above the gallery. But
no longer much to look at, as far as Willie was concerned. No body. No blood at all in the stripped-down bed. Only the ash
writing and fingerprint powder in random black smudges remained.

Willie watched as Darius disappeared into the vastness of a walk-in closet and hoped he was getting more out of these murder
scenes than she was. Antagonism remained in the air, a natural rivalry, professional as well as personal, with the additional
complication of Jimmy’s expectation that they actually like each other. It was the demand inherent in the blind-date refrain:
He’s got such a good personality.
Well, Michael Darius wasn’t a blind date, thank God, and his personality left a lot to be desired. But that she would have
expected. Jimmy’s confidences about his former partner had prepared her for the moroseness that seemed to be his essential
characteristic. But Jimmy had also said that Darius had the best investigative instincts he’d ever seen. Jimmy wanted him
on the case. That was what was important.

Darius emerged from the closet, stood next to the bed, appearing to study the letters that spelled out
Barakel
on the wall. From the doorway she studied his back. Its blank tenseness was a message clearer than words. Any small impression
of agreement reached at Jimmy’s place the other night had been pure illusion.

She walked back into the living room, leaving him alone to do whatever it was that he did. On a chrome console table a framed
photograph of Geoffrey Westlake held place of honor against a mirrored
wall. Model’s ego, she thought, displaying his own portrait. But crossing the room to get a better look, she noted the dedication
scrawled across the bottom:
Rob, Love always, Geoff.

Rob would be Robert Lindel, the apartment’s actual owner. She had read about him in Jimmy’s background files. Lindel was a
wealthy businessman in his sixties who spent his winters in Palm Springs, a self-described patron of the arts who’d taken
a friendly interest in Geoffrey Westlake’s career. The sublet he’d offered at such a nominal fee, he’d explained as a business
transaction. A fair exchange to have someone he trusted watching over his things.

It was obvious from the photo what Lindel’s real interest in Westlake had been.
Love always.
No … probably not that. But maybe what he’d called it. A fair exchange. Value for value.

The door to the hallway was open. A man walked in, small and rigidly poised in a heavy black suit that made him look like
a butler. His gaze went over her sternly, made a quick inventory of the room.

“I’m with the police,” she explained. “Is there some problem, Mr….?”

“Babcock. I’m the manager of this building. Lieutenant Sakura promised to inform me whenever anyone was to enter Mr. Lindel’s
apartment.”

She put on a smile. Better than making trouble for Jimmy. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m sure you can understand—”

“What I want to know is when that bedroom can be repainted,” Babcock cut her short. “Mr. Lindel’s been upset enough by … what’s
happened.” The officious little eyes slid past her. Darius had entered the room.

“How long had Geoffrey Westlake lived in this apartment?” he asked the manager.

“Mr. Lindel left for the Coast at the end of the summer,” Babcock answered readily enough, dropping the posturing. “But Mr.
Westlake had been staying here for a couple months by then, living here for all practical purposes.”

Darius nodded. His eyes were an intense shade of blue. They made him look Black Irish rather than Greek. “Have you any idea
where Mr. Westlake lived before that?” he asked the manager.

Babcock frowned, having to admit that he hadn’t.

“Thank you,” Darius said. A clear dismissal.

She watched the manager leave, then turned to Darius. His own gaze was inward, and she wondered what he was thinking. One
thing was clear. He didn’t just not want to be here with her. He plain didn’t want to be here. And he wouldn’t be, except
for this noble macho pissing contest he was having with Sakura. And yet the case engaged him in spite of himself. His intensity
betrayed him.

The blue eyes focused, catching her stare. She didn’t blink. She could piss with the best of them. And it was Jimmy, not she,
who had suggested they view some of the crime scenes together.

“You find anything?” she said.

“No.”

“What took you so long then?”

He didn’t answer.

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Mr. Darius?”

He surprised her by smiling. It changed his whole face. “I don’t like psychiatrists.”

“Afraid of what we’ll see?”

He laughed.

She took it for a yes.

“Pinot’s next,” he said.

She looked at her watch. “Sorry. Can’t go. I’m supposed to meet with Jimmy. You want to come?”

He shook his head but made no move to leave.

She left him, closing the door behind him. She could admit he was attractive, as Hanae had said, but
fucked up
in her clinical diagnosis. She had been with men who’d had a certain edge. Michael Darius was bristling with spikes. The
kind on which you could impale yourself.

Hanae walked out of Janice Nguyen’s studio into the cold. She felt somewhat like an unfinished butterfly in the cocoon of
her red coat. Her knit cap, pulled over her ears, muted the steady whir of the wind. She settled one gloved hand into the
shelter of a pocket, the other fixed on Taiko’s lead. She breathed in the chilled air. What she loved
most about the cold was the retreat into warmth. Opposite sensations tucked one into another like an old letter secreted inside
an envelope.

“Coffee or hot chocolate?” Adrian Lovett asked, matching her steps as she walked down the stairs.

“Tea.”

“
Tea,
of course.” She heard the sharp
zip-zip
of his jacket. “There’s a little place right around the corner. We can even sit outside, if you think Taiko would be more
comfortable…. Up for a short walk?”

“I love walking. I walk in the park at least twice a week.”

“Central Park?” She could hear the muffled slide of his hands into gloves.

“Yes, Taiko and I need the exercise.”

“When did you get him?”

“Soon after I moved to the city. A friend of mine thought it would be a good idea.”

“Have Taiko, will travel.”

“I don’t …” She’d turned toward him.

“A stupid joke. Old American television show.”

The metallic jungle of Taiko’s harness made high-pitched notes as they moved. The afternoon sun stretched cool skeleton shadows
across the pavement, and dry leaves scratched the cement in a wild game of hopscotch. From behind someone laughed, a perfect
sound, like a single egg cracking. Hanae shivered.

“Cold?”

“No, I love cold weather.”

“We don’t have to sit outside.”

“No, it will be fine. Taiko will like that better.”

“Well, here we are.” She felt his hand touch the center of her back, direct her toward a table.

He ordered her a pot of tea and a cup of black coffee for himself.

“Are you enjoying the class?” she asked, pulling off a glove, lifting her cup.

“Very much. But I’m not very good. I’m doing it mostly for therapy.”

“Therapy?”

“To relax. My job gets a bit stressful at times. I’m a Web designer, and all my clients want everything yesterday. But I can’t
seem to get
anything done until after the sun goes down. I’m what you’d call a night owl.”

“A wise bird.”

“I don’t know about that. I read somewhere that owls are stupid.”

She laughed. “I have become something of a night owl too. I cannot sleep until my husband comes home.”

“What does he do?”

“My Jimmy is a policeman.”

“Jimmy … as in Lieutenant James Sakura, NYPD?”

“Yes.”

“Big case he’s working on.”

She nodded, taking another sip of tea.

“I’m separated,” he said. “One son.”

“A son”—she could feel herself smiling—“… how old?”

“Eight next month. He was a Christmas present.”

“Will you see him for his birthday?”

“Actually, my ex and I are good friends. I pretty much get to see Christopher whenever I want”—he took a swallow of coffee—“but
what I can’t figure is how you sculpt the way you do?”

She removed her other glove, set it down with the other. Taiko was running his muzzle against her leg. “May I …?” she asked.

Then she reached across the table, taking his face into her hands. A small muscle jumped in his neck, flinched as though she’d
surprised him. Her palms pressed lightly against the bones of his cheeks, the ends of her fingers learning the texture of
his skin. At first she moved tentatively, like the uncertain landing of a small insect, then her hesitancy gave way to a steely
strength. A sculptor’s hands seeking to mold the contours of his jaw and chin, setting in place the curves and planes of his
features. Her thumbs resting at last inside the deep wells of his eyes.

“You are older than I thought,” she said, letting her hands fall into her lap. “And your eyes are green.”

GAY KILLER RELIGIOUS FANATIC
? the cover headline screamed. Willie, waiting for Jimmy in his office, picked up the
Post
from the waste-basket near his desk. It was last Thursday’s edition, and the article
had featured disturbingly accurate details of the incense burned at the scenes. She tossed the rag back in the trash.

“Hi.” Jimmy came in and sat down, offering her tea.

“Thanks.” She accepted. She had found the morning exhausting.

“How are you and Michael getting along?”

“Okay.” She watched him preparing the tea. “I can’t say that visiting the Milne and Westlake crime scenes has given me any
brilliant new insights. Darius may have something…. What about you?”

Jimmy gave a negative shrug. “We had a couple of names come up with Walt’s cross-check program.”

“Oh …?”

“A few people on the Milne gallery list turned up as signers on petition sheets from the neighborhood action meeting. It’s
what you’d expect. We’re checking it out, but none of them seem good for the murders.” He poured hot water over the leaves
in the pot.

“I don’t guess we’ve had any results yet on the bartender’s composite?” she asked him.

“All the wrong kind. The sketch could fit at least a quarter of the population.”

“You get back the lab work on Pinot?”

Jimmy nodded. “Same pattern, including the LSD. Only difference, he was positive for marijuana. Trace of heroin.”

He poured out tea for the two of them, handed her a cup. She watched him sip. The only man who didn’t look silly with a tiny
cup in his hand.

“I’m still waiting to hear your theory,” he said, “about how he’s using the LSD.”

She smiled. “What do you know about brainwashing?”

“I think you might have talked about it at Quantico. I’m not sure how much I remember.”

It was an invitation to go on. Jimmy never forgot a thing.