West 47th (20 page)

Mitch adjusted his seat for more recline, closed his eyes and over-heard: “A belle époque period diamond and pearl head ornament.”

“What exactly is a head ornament?” Maddie asked.

“A comb.”

“Why didn't they say a comb?”

They, Mitch thought cynically.

Hurley told her: “This one's made of real tortoiseshell mounted with a band of diamonds and bordered with natural pearls. Signed by Cartier.”

“Sounds sweet. This Kalali lady had some lovely jewelry.”

Had, Mitch thought.

“Wonder where she got it all. Maybe she bought swag.”

Hurley went on to the photo of the two twenty-carat emeralds fitted in their ivory box. As he was describing them in detail to Maddie, Mitch visualized them, their Arabic-looking inscriptions and all.

“What do the inscriptions say?” Maddie asked.

“How should I know?”

“I'd think you'd want to,” Maddie said. “It's probably important.”

Mitch wondered why Hurley didn't tell her what the inscriptions said was irrelevant, that all that mattered was they'd been stolen and whoever stole them had killed one Kalali going on two.

Hurley went on describing other pieces.

Mitch wished he had earplugs.

But then Maddie reached forward and found his head, gave it a couple of loving strokes and mussed his hair some. That easily he was brought up to the brighter surface and the miles to the scene of the crime were made to seem not so many.

The gate of the Kalali house was open but the police crime scene tape was still up.

Mitch told Maddie he wouldn't be long, she was to wait in the car with Billy.

She did a brief, obedient smile.

Mitch and Hurley walked up the drive. It was lined with an abundance of blue hydrangeas at their peak. An oriole was enjoying ablutions in a cantilevered bath. Altogether a summer contentment about the place, not robbery and homicide.

They entered the house and immediately had to step around the outlined indication of where Mrs. Kalali had been shot down. The dried pool of her week-old blood dimensional on the slick, hardwood floor of the reception hall.

They proceeded to the study where shards of Persian glass crunched beneath their steps and books were heaped helter-skelter. Their attention was immediately drawn to the white sofa upon which was the dark red stain of Mr. Kalali's bleeding, a grisly Rorschach.

Now it was a place of robbery and homicide.

They went throughout the expansive house, absorbing the stark, cold, contemporary character of it. The master bedroom had been left as found, except for a lot of messy dusting for fingerprints.

Mitch and Hurley agreed that the condition of the dressing room was unusual, didn't look as though swifts had been there. Why hadn't it been ransacked, the dresser drawers yanked out, their contents dumped on the floor?

And the gaping, empty floor safe in the bedroom. A high-rated safe that would have taken considerable time and experience and special equipment to force open. What else could be assumed except that one of the Kalalis had opened it under duress?

“For all the good it did them,” Mitch remarked.

“Getting any ideas?” Hurley asked.

“Could have been anyone's crew,” Mitch said.

They went out to the rear terrace and further out on the grounds. The Jersey guys had already gone over the area but there was the chance that they might have missed something, something that had been dropped or whatever.

“Couldn't have asked for a more ideal setup with the easy wall, the overgrown grounds and all,” Mitch commented.

“Here's where they came over. It was soggy so they left good, deep shoe prints. The Jersey police took impressions. According to them two of the guys weigh about one seventy-five, both had on Nikes. The other guy was a real lightweight, a hundred ten or so. Maybe not even that. Had on boots with pointed toes. Tiny narrow feet. Know a crew that has a swift like that?”

“Not offhand.”

“At least it's something to look for. And the fact that they were a hard crew.”

“That narrows it down some.”

“Not much these days though. Would have ten years ago.”

A hard crew was one that carried guns. Most swifts didn't used to and some still didn't because if caught the charge would be armed robbery rather than just burglary. Armed robbery carried a five-year-longer sentence.

Piano music.

Contradicting the moment with bits and passages of romantic Tchaikovsky. It seemed to be coming from somewhere neighboring but then Mitch and Hurley realized it was coming from the Kalali house.

They hurried in.

Maddie was seated at the black baby grand in the study. Her left hand struck three ominous-sounding chords, sort of Mozart. “This place is like a mausoleum,” she complained.

“You were supposed to wait in the car,” Mitch told her somewhat reproachfully.

“I needed to go to the bathroom.” She did a lively, double upscale run all the way to the last ivory key, along with a Ray Charles chin up, head back. “I had no problem finding it.”

Chapter 14

Such a summer Saturday!

Why, the very air was different from yesterday's. Not nearly so ladened nor polluted with responsibility. There'd be no Ruder, no Visconti, no Riccio, not a mote of 47th in this air, Mitch thought.

He lay on his left side on his side of the bed, curled enough so the base of his spine was pressed to the base of Maddie's. At times when they got into this position Mitch played with the illusion that they were permanently attached, like Siamese twins. The romantic fantasy was always spoiled by the inconveniences and impossibilities that would come with it. At other times he imagined their touching spines formed an erotic circuit for a current that would recharge them, in a sort of tantric way.

He'd been awake since five-thirty. It was now close to six.

If he got up now, didn't continue to lie there letting thoughts pass through his head like neutrinos, he'd be able to leisurely do whatever he had to do before Billy picked them up at seven-thirty.

He put his feet to the carpet.

Noise didn't matter. Maddie should get up. He said her name for the first time that day, softly. She didn't respond. He nudged her with it, twice, louder.

She did a torporous protesting
mmm
and reached with her legs to where he'd vacated. “Come back,” she murmured.

“Billy will be here in an hour or so.”

She burrowed in under her pile of pillows, pulled one of Mitch's to her, hugged it and was again taking the downward passage to sleep.

She'd be having to rush around later furious at herself, Mitch thought on his way to the kitchen.

Fresh-brewed Kona.

Well-buttered cinnamon toast.

He brought them into the bedroom. Placed the tray on the bed. The aromas would get to her. He compounded the enticement by pouring himself some of the rich, steaming black and crunching a bite of toast.

Maddie huffed and complained: “It's too fucking early.”

“Maybe you'd rather not go to the country today.”

“At a decent hour.”

“You and Billy,” Mitch remarked.

She sat up amidst the plump. “Coffee me please.”

Mitch obliged and her first finger found the handle of the mug.

Mitch was used to her blind precision.

She helped herself to a slice of toast. Mitch didn't care for it all that much but he knew it was one of her every-so-often morning favorites.

“Are you dressed?” she asked.

“No.”

“What do you intend to wear?”

“I don't know, why?”

“Wear jeans, a tight pair.”

“It'll be too warm for jeans.”

“And boots. You do have a pair of high-tops, don't you?”

She was up to something, Mitch thought.

“The Doc Martens I bought you. Did you leave them in the country?”

“Yeah,” Mitch fibbed and thought he'd wear lightweight khakis, a T-shirt without a name or place on it and pair of sneakers. No matter what she was specifying or why, he was going to be comfortable.

She got up for the bathroom with a whole slice of toast clenched between her teeth. Mitch heard simultaneously the diametric sounds of the toast being crunched and the stream of her striking the water in the commode.

“I love you, precious,” she called out from in there.

“Love you too,” Mitch said, and with that exchange it seemed what had ensued up to then in his day had been merely overture.

Maddie was in the shower.

“We've about a half hour,” he told her. Apparently she was being diligent about the time. However, when she was out and had dried herself she set about waxing her legs.

“You can do that up at Straw's,” Mitch said.

She went on pressing the sheets of wax around her shins and calves. As she ripped them off it sounded and appeared painful to Mitch.

“Don't dawdle,” he told her.

“Is that what I'm doing? I thought I was doing something that might please you later on.”

Cheeks and thighs, he thought.

“Did you take in the paper?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why don't you?”

He got that morning's
Times
from the landing. It was already quarter after seven and he wasn't yet dressed. Nor was Maddie. She was now before the mirror, leaning to it, fussing with her hair, picking at a tendril here, another there, as though she was seeing her image.

“I'll read to you on the way up,” Mitch said.

“What are the headlines? Never mind, go to the fourth page. What's juicy on the fourth page?”

“Only a lot of wars.”

“How about the Living Arts section?”

“That doesn't come on Saturdays.”

“At least there must be some editorials.”

There were two. She agreed with one, and the other having to do with the overfishing and the plights of Columbia River salmon made her temporarily irate.

Reading the
Times
aloud to her wasn't a daily must but something Mitch did fairly regularly. He enjoyed it. He often omitted or inserted words to make the articles more controversial or slanted more toward his views.

As he got into today's business section Maddie remarked
same old shit
and squirmed into a pair of black jeans. She sucked in, zipped up and ran an approving hand over her snugly contained buttocks. “What do you think?”

“You'll swelter.”

Seven-thirty, quarter to eight.

“Where the hell is Billy?”

“He'll be along,” Maddie assured.

“Think I should call Straw and let him know we're coming?”

“He'd rather we just showed up.”

They spent one or two weekends each month up at Straw's. And nearly all holidays. A room designated as theirs was kept ready for them, plenty of changes for each season in its closet, a stock of personal needs in the adjoining bath.

Ready to go, they sat in the study.

More wait, more waste, Mitch thought.

There wasn't much of consequence one could do while doing wait, it was too distracting an activity in itself.

Maddie felt the hands of her special, exposed wristwatch. “Nine o'clock,” she said.

Mitch's
Where the hell is Billy?
intensified to
Where the fuck is Billy?

At nine-thirty Billy called up from the lobby. “I'm here,” was all he said.

Maddie told Mitch to go on down. “I've a thing or two I want to take along.”

“Like what?”

“Just a thing or two,” she replied vaguely.

Now that Billy had arrived Mitch found his aggravation was anti-climactic. What, really, did a couple of hours matter? It wasn't imperative that they get to the country early, just a notion he'd fixed on. Still, he was going to have to do some reproach. He wasn't good at it, but Billy's attitude towards him, the client, had to be set straight.

Double standard, Mitch, double standard, he realized as he reached the lobby level. Nevertheless, he stepped out of the elevator, did an annoyed face and put some bite in his stride.

Billy, the Sherry doorman and their smiles were out front. A small flatbed trailer was hitched to the Lexus.

Mitch instantly revised his act.

On the flatbed was the reason Billy had been so insistent on nine-nine-thirty. Why Maddie had been taking her own sweet time.

At once, a gate of Mitch's memory sprung open and out for front and center came a certain night last winter during an afterwards among the pillows. He and Maddie had taken turns revealing things they'd at one time or another wanted and might again, material things.

He'd begun with the obligatory assertion that as long as he had her he wanted nothing more.

“As long as?” she'd arched.

“Okay, inasmuch as.”

“Do I have to go first?”

“No,” he said. “Let me think. I always wanted a hog.”

“Really, a hog?”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you sure, precious? You'd have to slop it. That's what they do, don't they, slop hogs?”

And now, there in front of the Sherry was the hog. Held upright on the flatbed by guy cables. Saturday New York walkers were pausing to admire it because it was up there on the flatbed looking exhibited.

What Maddie had gotten him in place of the Fabergé cuff links.

A Harley-Davidson no less.

A new Heritage Softail Classic in serious black with chrome-laced wheels, chrome fishtail mufflers, a shotgun style exhaust, fat boy tank, everything. Even black cowhide fringes with chrome beads dangling from the hand grips and chrome studs and conchos that played up the black, harness-leather saddlebags.

Mitch and Billy were wheeling it down the ramp of the flatbed when Maddie came out.

“How's that for a cycle?” she said brightly.

“Where's yours?” Mitch said.

“Don't I wish,” she laughed. “Man, you're just going to have to pack your bitch.” Evidently while buying the bike she'd made them throw in some vernacular. “You're not going to insist I take it back, are you?”