Sex, Murder and a Double Latte (27 page)

“You never know when you’re gonna have to defend yourself. When you do gangsta rap some fucker’s always trying to get a piece of you. Shit, JJ Money and I weren’t gonna shoot each other. We’re rap stars, the police are always gunnin’ for us. We don’t need to be makin’ things easy for them.”

I knew DC Smooth was telling me the truth, but he had told me absolutely nothing that I could use to prove it. Yes, he confirmed that JJ Money knew Mark, but I basically already knew that. I mentally reviewed what had been said so far. What was it? There had to be something….

“Yo, you still there?”

“The guy talking in the background to JJ Money, any idea who it was?”

“Naw, my defense attorney drilled me on that too. Fuck if I know, I could barely hear the man. It was a white guy, though, not a brother.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t payin’ good attention at the time, but I remember thinkin’ that he just sounded different, not like the people JJ Money normally ran with.”

I swallowed and let my eyes travel up to the ceiling. “Maybe he had an accent?”

“Yeah, he might of. If he did it was minor. Not like those full-on Puerto Rican dudes.”

He wasn’t sure. There was still a chance that it wasn’t Anatoly. But that chance was pretty slim.

“Hey, my time’s almost up. You got any more questions?”

“No, no, you gave me the information I needed. Thank you.”

“All right, well, let me know what’s up. I want to hold my kid. I just want to hold him, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll do my best.” I hung up the phone and looked at Mr. Katz. “Oh God. This shit is fucked up.”

CHAPTER 16

“Knowledge only equates to power if you can figure out what to do with it.”

—
Sex, Drugs and Murder

I
couldn’t help but be impressed when Donato chauffeured Marcus up to the front door of LuLu’s in a new Porsche 911. Apparently crap sells. Or maybe people just wanted to give Donato money. That wasn’t such a stretch; I wanted to give him money. But then, I wanted to stuff the money into a G-string.

Donato draped his arm over the door. “Sophie, how are you?”

“Hanging in there. Nice car.”

“Yes, it is very freeing. I feel it helps me to release my creativity.”

Now, why hadn’t I thought of that? I could probably be twice the writer I am if I just bought myself a Porsche.

Marcus leaned over and gave Donato a little peck on the cheek before getting out of the car to present me with a bouquet of calla lilies. “It’s a little ‘I’m glad you’re not dead’ present.”

“Do they make Hallmarks for that?”

“Probably. They make cards for families of suicide victims, why not ones for potential homicide victims? It could go something like this—‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m really happy that you’re not sleeping with the fishes.’”

I grimaced.

“Too soon?”

“I must go,” Donato said, unfastening his seat belt long enough to take off his jacket, thus immediately getting our attention. “Marcus, I’ll meet you tonight at the Black Cat.”

“Nine o’clock, sweetie.”

Donato smiled and gave me a casual wave before riding off in a blaze of glory.

“A 911, huh? Are you sure he’s not bi?”

“I got you a bouquet, stay away from my man.”

I fingered the arrangement. “Hmm, I get calla lilies, and you get laid. That’s fair.”

“Don’t forget, I’m buying lunch too.”

“It’s gonna take one hell of a crème caramel to make up for missing out on that.”

“Maybe I’ll throw in a cookie.”

Marcus escorted me in, and over lunch I filled him in on all my latest discoveries. At the beginning of the meal Marcus was ordering various courses with his characteristic enthusiasm and zest; by the end, the waiter was clearing away full plates that he had barely even noticed. He placed both hands flat on the table as if that would help ground him. “You do see how the killer was led to you.”

“Well, the guy seems to go for people in the entertainment industry who depict violence in their work. I’m on the outskirts of the entertainment industry but my work is…”

“JJ Money had a role in a Tolsky production,” Marcus interjected. “They must have had some contact during the time the killer was planning the first murder that led him to Tolsky. Tolsky met with you to talk about the screenplay you were going to write less than a month before he died—that led the killer to you.”

I chewed thoughtfully on a gingersnap. “God, you’re totally right. That was so perceptive of you.”

“Not really, it was pretty obvious.”

“Work with me. I’m trying not to feel like an idiot.”

“Not an idiot honey, just a little frazzled.” He rattled the ice in his drink. “I agree that you can’t rule out that Baccon guy, but I still think it’s probably that bastard Anatoly. He was in New York when JJ Money was killed and he had direct access to Tolsky. I mean
hello.
Can we spell
suspicious?
”

I slid down in my chair. “I know, but I just keep hoping that there’s another explanation.” I used my spoon to make an artistic creation with the remainder of my dessert. “What about the woman Tolsky was seeing in San Francisco? How do you think she fits into it?”

“She may not. Hell, we don’t even know if the girl exists.” Marcus placed his ankle over the opposite knee. “When you met with Tolsky, did he say anything useful?”

“Useful, hmm, you mean like, ‘I’m being stalked by a murderous maniac named Joe and I’m having an extramarital affair with his sister, who happens to live in San Francisco’?”

“That would be useful.”

“He didn’t say that.”

Marcus examined the exposed beams on the restaurant’s ceiling. “Did he talk about anything other than work stuff?”

“No, not really.” I chewed on the nail of my pinkie. “Wait, he did say he really liked San Francisco?”

“That would not be useful.”

“He said he liked the European feeling of the city, the little theaters and the galleries— The galleries!” I dropped my sugarcoated spoon. “Marcus, he said he liked the galleries.”

“And we should care about that because…”

“Because Anatoly said he knew the owner of the Sussman Gallery. He said they used to room together in New York.”

“That boy’s name just keeps popping up.”

“Don’t you see, Marcus?” I gripped the table to keep myself from jumping out of my seat. “It’s not just that we may have established another connection between Anatoly and Tolsky, but we now know of someone
else
who knows Anatoly. Someone we can talk to.”

Marcus cocked his head to the side. “It’s something.”

“Yes, it is, and something is infinitely better than the nothing I’ve been working with.” I grabbed the credit card that Marcus had left on the table and waved it in the air for our waiter to see. “I don’t know what your plans are today, but it’s time for me to become an art collector.”

I was walking so fast that even Marcus with his long legs had to make an effort to keep up. “Honey, the gallery isn’t going anywhere, there’s no need for us to get ourselves all sweaty and mussed.”

“We’re on the verge of something big. I can feel it.”

We burst into the gallery, prompting the relieved smiles of the two other patrons who could now escape the attention of the commissioned sales staff.

A pudgy male associate with a high forehead and a low ponytail waddled over to us with a welcoming grin. “Hello. How are you both today?”

“We’re fine,” I said. I made it a point to make eye contact. That was important, because if I didn’t, I might have to focus on his nicely cut Italian red blazer that he had paired with a fuchsia silk shirt. “Actually, maybe you could help us.”

“That is why I’m here. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Randolph. Perhaps there is a specific artist you are looking for?”

Marcus and I exchanged looks. He might be Randolph now, but there was little doubt that at birth he had been a Ralph. “No, we’re actually looking for the owner. Oh, I’m sorry, this is my friend Marcus and my name is Sophie Katz. I’m a novelist. Perhaps you’ve read some of my books? They’re usually located on the book racks for the
New York Times
bestsellers.” Anyone who called himself Randolph would have to be impressed to be cooperative.

“Oh, of course, of course I have.” Liar. “How marvelous to make your acquaintance. You are in luck. Usually, it’s difficult to catch Mr. Sussman here. However, this afternoon he’s been in the office all day. I’ll go check to see if he’s available. In the meantime, please feel free to look around. We have some new pieces that are absolutely divine.”

Marcus stood with his hands on his hips and stared after Ralph as he went off to find Sussman. “Divine? Even when I’m in full camp mode I do not use the word ‘divine.’”

I shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Maybe you could take him under your wing and teach him how to be a subtle queen.”

“Uh-uh, it’s a talent you have to be born with.” He glanced around the room. “Oh, look. There’s one of Donato’s paintings.”

I searched my mind for something positive to say. “Wow, it looks like he used a paintbrush this time. That’s good.”

“The man is beautiful, he’s rich, he gives a blow job that Heidi Fleisch couldn’t compete with, so who cares if his paintings look like the work of an angry kindergartener? Somebody’s buying.”

“As long as you can keep a sense of humor about it.”

“It’s easy to keep your sense of humor when you’re being driven around in a Porsche.”

Ralph returned with a tall skinny man with blond hair that was cut in a manner that would have looked rakish on a teenager but just silly on a guy who had quite obviously cleared forty. He extended his hand to me, then to Marcus. “Gary Sussman. How can I be of assistance?”

“Mr. Sussman, I’m so glad to meet you. As Ral—Randolph probably already told you, my name is Sophie Katz and I’m a novelist. I’m writing a book in which one of my characters owns a gallery. Anatoly Darinsky suggested that you might be able to give me some insight into the art world so I can give my story a sense of authenticity.”

Sussman brightened. “Absolutely. I’d be more then happy to answer your questions. And please, call me Gary.”

“All right, Gary. Call me Sophie, and this is Marcus.”

“I just came along for the art,” Marcus said. “Randolph, show me something that will move me. I just so want to be moved.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Ralph joined his hands in front of him with a clap. “There are some very stirring pieces by an artist by the name of Rizzetti. May I show you?”

“That would just be divine.”

Marcus followed a floating Ralph while I let Gary lead me into his office. I surveyed the space. “Wow, what a great room.” I sat down on something that resembled a chair, but then again it might have been a modern Chinese torture device.

“The artist Marian Dominick did it for me. I consider the room itself a piece of art.”

“For good reason. It’s as stunning as the art you show here.” I was having a hard time reconciling what I knew about Anatoly and his apparent friendship with this man. My interactions with Anatoly on the night of Donato’s opening had made it abundantly clear to me that Anatoly was intolerant of people who were overly “enlightened,” while Gary was so excessively enlightened he was practically glowing.

Gary leaned forward in his chair. “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you have a very exotic look. What, exactly, is your nationality?”

There was something about this man that just made a person want to mess with him. “My mother is Egyptian and my father is Israeli. They met at a party celebrating the Camp David accords.”

He was silent for a beat, clearly unsure if he should believe me. Then a smile crept onto his face. “That is the most fantastic thing I’ve ever heard.”

I wasn’t sure if by “fantastic” he meant the story was wonderful or a pile of bull, but I decided not to press it.

“So Anatoly suggested you talk to me?” Gary asked.

“Yeah, he kind of mentioned it in passing. We don’t know each other that well. We’re more acquaintances than friends.” The lie seemed more palatable than the truth, which was that I’d be sleeping with him if he wasn’t trying to kill me.

“I’m not sure anyone knows Anatoly that well. I used to live with him, and I still have no idea who he is.”

“Oh? I got the impression that you were close.”

“From Anatoly?” Gary’s eyebrows elevated a notch. “That’s interesting. We lived together briefly in New York while I was getting my doctorate at NYU, but at the time all we had in common was the need to split the rent on a cheap Manhattan apartment. I’m speaking in relative terms, of course. In actuality the words
cheap
and
Manhattan
are mutually exclusive.” He chuckled at his little joke.

I tried to.

“Was he a contractor in New York?”

“A contractor? Is he a contractor now?”

I paused, trying to come up with a good response. “Maybe. I might have misheard him.” There, that was brilliant.

“Odd, he never so much as changed a lightbulb while we were roommates. How things change.”

“What did he do in New York?”

Gary wrinkled his brow. “You know, I’m not sure. As I said, we were never close. In the few months we lived together I don’t think we ever had a single conversation that lasted for more than five sentences. He had a tendency to keep to himself.”

“But, you must have checked his references when he moved in?”

“He was living in the apartment before me. I was the boarder, so to speak.”

I dug my fingers into the leather of my purse. This guy had to be more helpful than this. “So maybe he was a contractor in New York and you just didn’t know it?”

“No, no, I don’t think he was a contractor. Insurance. I think he was in insurance.”

“Anatoly was an insurance salesman? Anatoly Darinsky?”

Gary laughed. “That doesn’t seem to fit, either, does it? As you can tell I’m very fuzzy on the whole thing but I do remember something about insurance.”