Three-Day Town (7 page)

“Don’t you want someone to drive you home?” she asked.

“All the way to Sheepshead Bay?” He grinned. “Thanks, but the subway’s quicker and I’m only two blocks from the station. Good seeing you again. Just sorry it couldn’t have stayed social.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Josh Cho. “Call me, Dwight, if you or Deborah change your mind. Friends tell us it’s a comfortable couch.”

Dwight Bryant had put his arm around Deborah and Sigrid heard him say, “We’ll be fine. Right, Deb’rah?”

By which Sigrid gathered that they meant to go on staying in this apartment. For some reason she had thought that this Southern woman would be too squeamish to sleep here tonight, but the judge shrugged and said, “This building must be close to a hundred years old. I’m sure he’s not the first person to die in it.”

Knowing this would be their last chance at the apartment before it was thoroughly contaminated by the Bryants, Sigrid instructed her team to give the room a final examination.

Her dread of emotional confrontations made this next part of the job difficult for her, but knowing it could not be put off any longer, she signaled to Sam Hentz and said to Vaughn and Cho, “We’ll ride down with you.”

On the ground floor, Lieutenant Vaughn and Dr. Cho headed out into the falling snow. The elevator man on duty earlier had been relieved by the night operator, one Jani Horvath. He was big and beefy, with a snowy white walrus mustache. When Hentz asked him when he’d last seen Lundigren, the man seemed genuinely surprised. “Phil? That was
Phil
that got killed? I thought it was somebody from Luna’s party.”

“Did you see him tonight?” they asked.

He shook his head and his mustache seemed to droop mournfully. “No. I came in early on account of the snow. The weather channel said we were gonna get at least twelve inches. I sacked out for a few hours downstairs and relieved Sidney early so he could get home before it got too deep. I heard somebody got killed, but I never thought it was Phil. Poor bastard. You coming to tell Denise?”

“Is that his wife?”

Horvath nodded. “You’ll go easy on her, right? She’s real shy. I forget what they call it—where somebody can’t stand to be around new people?”

“Social anxiety disorder?”

“Yeah, that’s what Phil called it. There was a time that he was the only one she could talk to or relax with, but then a psychiatrist bought into the building and he helped her a lot. She’s okay with people she knows good or in a crowd that’s not paying her any attention, but she still has a little trouble with new people where she has to talk or answer questions, so—”

A loud buzz from someone on the sixth floor interrupted him and he stepped back into the cage.

“Right around the corner,” he told them. “First door on the right.”

They rang the doorbell twice and knocked loudly, but no one came.

“If she’s a nutcase, we may be wasting our time,” said Hentz.

Sigrid held her finger on the doorbell until the door, secured by two safety chains, finally opened a narrow crack.

The woman who peered out at them had a thin drawn face and sleep-rumpled coal black hair that needed a touch-up at the gray roots. Incongruously, her eyes were sooty with heavy black mascara, blusher pinked her cheeks, and her lips were freshly painted a bright red that matched her quilted satin robe.

Sigrid tried to remember what she had read about social anxiety disorder and wondered if putting on makeup was part of this woman’s coping technique.

“Phil’s not here,” the woman said. “Come back later.”

Hentz blocked the door with his foot before she could close it, and they held up their badges.

“Police, Mrs. Lundigren,” Sigrid said. “May we come in?”

“Phil’s not here,” the woman said again.

“We know. That’s why we have to talk to you.”

Grudgingly, the woman removed the chain, then quickly retreated to the far doorway of this small room to watch them uneasily as they entered her home. The moment their eyes met hers, she instantly looked away.

Having seen the body of the dead man, bulky and coarse-looking in his dark brown coveralls, and having heard that his wife supplemented their income by cleaning, Sigrid had subconsciously expected an equally bulky woman and a drab apartment, perhaps furnished with castoffs from the building’s residents.

Instead, the wife was slender and pretty and this tiny room was nicely furnished. The walls were painted a deep red with white enamel trim. The single window was draped in white linen over white sheers. Red-and-white floral cushions softened the clean lines of an off-white loveseat, and two wingchairs were upholstered in white velvet. Several dainty crystal cats sat atop a gleaming end table that also held a lamp with a cut-glass base and white silk shade. A modern oriental-style rug lay on the dark oak floor. The whole effect was crisply feminine.

Mrs. Lundigren’s arms tightened across her thin chest. “Where’s Phil?”

“Excuse me?” Sigrid said.

“You said you know he’s not here, so where is he?” Her eyes flickered over to them and then dropped to the floor.

“When did you last see him?” Sam Hentz countered.

“After supper. There was a party up on six. Loud people coming and going through the lobby. He said he was going up to check on things.”

“What time would that be, Mrs. Lundigren?”

“Maybe ten o’clock? I don’t know.” Her fingers brushed her wrist absentmindedly. “I don’t have a watch.”

They glanced around the small room. There was no clock in sight. No television either. In fact, now that Sigrid looked more closely, this room did not seem to be used at all. Nothing out of place.

“Is this where you were when he left?” she asked.

Mrs. Lundigren studied the floor and shook her head. “In the den.”

Without really knowing why she cared, Sigrid took a step forward and said, “May we see?”

“No!”

The force of her refusal surprised the two officers.

Trembling now, she edged behind a wingback chair and moaned, “Please. Go away now. And tell Phil to come home.
Please!
”

Sigrid looked helplessly at Hentz, who made soothing noises. “It’s okay, Mrs. Lundigren. We’re going to stay over here. Why don’t you take a seat and let us tell you why we came?”

He continued to reassure her with soft words, and eventually she forced herself to come out from behind the chair and sit down in it. Once she had stopped trembling, Hentz stepped aside for Sigrid, who took a deep breath and said, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Lundigren, but Phil is dead.”

“What?”

“Up in 6-A. Someone—”

“No,” said Denise Lundigren. “No, no,
no
! He can’t be dead.”

When they did not reassure her, she looked around in wild agitation as if her husband might suddenly appear. “Who’s going to look after me?”

“Is there someone we can call?” asked Hentz.

She shook her head, then, almost meeting his eyes, she said, “Are you sure he’s really dead? Not just hurt?”

“I’m very sorry, ma’am.”

Wrapping her arms even tighter, the woman began to rock back and forth, keening in a high shrill wordless scream that seemed to go on and on forever.

Hentz started to reach out to her to offer comfort, but she recoiled, screaming even louder.

“Bellevue?” Hentz asked Sigrid in a low voice.

She nodded.

CHAPTER

6

Eating and drinking, instead of being the satisfaction of a physical need, is here a social function.

—
The New New York
, 1909

W
hen I looked out, I saw that the snow was falling more fiercely than ever, driven by a sharp wind that had already piled several inches against the French doors where we’d found Phil Lundigren a few hours earlier.

Although Dwight had taken a professional interest in the proceedings and was now in deep conversation with the detectives Sigrid and her colleague had left to finish up, I was too tired and hungry to listen. Supper had been a few glasses of wine, two bites of cheese, and a cube of melon, and that was over three hours ago.

I stifled a yawn and Elliott Buntrock said, “Tired?”

“Not at all,” I lied.

“If you prefer, I can wait for Sigrid downstairs.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said, knowing that it would probably be at least another hour before everyone cleared out and left Dwight and me alone. “I
am
hungry, though. Can I get you something, too?” His bony face brightened. “What do you have?”

I laughed. “I’m not sure. The last time I looked, though, the refrigerator was stuffed. My husband’s absolutely besotted with the grocery store around the corner.” “Fairway Market, right? It’s a madhouse, but people come from all over town to shop there. Have you tried their café upstairs? They do a great breakfast.” Without actually being invited, he followed me into the kitchen. While I wiped fingerprint powder off the countertops, he murmured approval of the high ceilings and period woodwork, then held the refrigerator door open so I could rummage through the little plastic boxes and bags.

“Artichoke salad? Mixed olives? Bruschetta?” I asked. “Sliced rare tenderloin? Smoked salmon?” “Yes, please,” he said. “And is that a pack of oatmeal stout hiding in the back?” It was.

“I must say that I rather like your husband’s taste.”

We dumped everything on the kitchen counter and pulled out two of the four stools. Picnicking at a murder scene might be considered a little bizarre, but if Dwight and I were going to stay here, we needed food and drink, and I was ready for both. Besides, the crime scene team seemed to be through with the kitchen.

“Plates in here?” Elliott asked, reaching for a cupboard door.

“Glasses there. Plates one door over,” I told him.

As he assembled dishes and utensils, I moved the cardboard box that had held that chunky bronze thing that Mrs. Lattimore had sent and started to wad up the paper that had cushioned it.

“Wait a minute,” Elliott said, rescuing one of the sheets of paper. “Look at this.” When I unpacked that miniature piece of sculpture earlier, I assumed Mrs. Lattimore had just used whatever was at hand. Now I saw that they were pages torn from a magazine.

“It’s the interview with Streichert’s granddaughter.” He smoothed them out and showed me a black-and-white photo. “That’s Albrecht Streichert.” The sculptor had possessed a pumpkin-shaped head, broad and quite rounded, wider at the brow than in the jaw. A receding hairline emphasized the bulging brow. Ordinary eyes and nose and thin lips that were tightly closed in what looked like a habitual frown. Further down the page was a picture of a sculpted steel cylinder that could have been a larger-than-life version of the one that had been stolen. Instead of Jews and blacks, this one was a writhing mass of generic Caucasian male and female nudes. Although slightly cleaner, it, too, was a depiction of carnal sensuality and… um… agility. Both were bounded by the cylinder shape and both had clearly sprung from the same artistic mindset.

“Let’s save this for Sigrid.”

“Have you known her long?” I asked, curious about their relationship.

“We met about three or four months before Oscar died.” A shadow passed across his avian face. “Hard to think he’s been gone so long.” “What was he like?” I asked softly, hoping to encourage his reminiscence.

“A brilliant artist. What he knew about color and—”

“I meant as a man.”

“As a man? Funny. Intelligent. Generous. Opinionated as hell and not shy about voicing those opinions.” He gave a wry smile. “He didn’t suffer fools, but he had the widest circle of friends of anyone I’ve ever met. From garbage men to governors.” He cocked his head at me like an egret examining a dubious minnow. “But that’s not what you’re asking, is it? You want to know about his affair with your not-kissing cousin, right?” “Guilty,” I admitted sheepishly. “And way out of line. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re not the first. He could have had almost any woman in the city, while Sigrid…” He hesitated. “Well, let’s just say she was no Lady Francesca Leeds when they first met.” “Francesca Leeds?” A mental image of that red-haired Irish beauty flashed through my head. She often appeared on the talk show circuit. A stunning and witty woman. “She was on the red carpet at the last Tony Awards, wasn’t she? On the arm of some gorgeous man?” “Probably.” He lifted the lid on the olives and popped one in his mouth. “She usually is.” I was impressed. “And Oscar Nauman knew her?”

Elliott nodded. “They were together for several months before Sigrid came along.” I was moving from impressed to incredulous. “She took him away from Francesca Leeds?” “He wouldn’t have put it like that, but in essence, yes. You want to put all this out on a platter or shall we just serve ourselves from the boxes?” “In other words, you don’t want to talk about it anymore?”

“Talk about what?” asked Dwight as he rounded the corner.

“The murder,” I said. “Pick up any tips from those detectives in there?”

“Nope. Everything’s standard procedure and their funding’s even worse than ours. They do a lot of their own preliminary lab work, too.” He held out his hand to Elliott. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk before. I’m Dwight Bryant.” “Elliott Buntrock. Hope you don’t mind that I’ve helped myself to one of your beers.” “Not a bit. In fact, I’ll join you.”

“So what brings Southerners to New York in January?” Elliott asked when we had filled our plates and Dwight had poured part of his ale into my glass.

“It’s supposed to be our honeymoon,” I said.

He lifted his glass in toast. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” said Dwight, “but the wedding was a year ago.”

Elliott grinned. “I thought you people only talked slow.”

Dwight laughed and cut himself a piece of some smelly cheese that was pockmarked with flecks of blue mold. “Things kept coming up.” “I gather you’re a police officer, too?”

“Sheriff’s deputy. Pass the mustard?”

Elliott put a dab of dill mustard on his salmon, then passed the little jar on to Dwight. “So you catch them and Deborah sentences them?” “If I find them guilty,” I said mildly.