Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

“I don’t know- once or twice a month, maybe. I didn’t keep track.”

Once or twice a month. “I heard she didn’t have much to do with her family.”

“She didn’t. She and the sister didn’t get along, so when she went up there, it was mostly to see her dad. He’s in some kind of a home, and pretty out of it- too out of it to fight with much, I guess.”

I nodded. I thought about Holly’s apartment, and the video camera boxes on the floor. “Did Holly do all her editing at home?”

“Yeah- she had her computer, and software for the editing, and for burning the disks. But all that stuff was gone when I got there.”

I thought about the videos, about watching them in Todd Herring’s screening room. And then I thought of something else. “The reliquaries- the little cabinets that went with the videos- Holly didn’t make those in the apartment, did she?”

Coyle shook his head. “She did that in her studio.”

“Her studio?”

“That’s what she called it. It was just a locker in one of those self-storage places- not much more than a giant closet- but she had a workbench in there, and woodworking tools and shit.” Coyle gave me the name of the place and the address. It was in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. He didn’t have a key, but he knew the unit number.

I looked down at my hands. They were throbbing and ugly, and the pain was making it hard to concentrate. A trip to the emergency room was in my near future, and I wondered about driving. I asked Coyle how I could reach him, and he sighed and gave me Kenny’s cell number. His lassitude was contagious; a wave of fatigue washed over me, and washed away what little buzz I’d gotten from the caffeine and the sugar. I hoisted myself up and pulled on my jacket. Coyle sighed again and dragged himself off the cot and to the sink. He ran the water and leaned at the edge- all out of air. I was surprised when he spoke.

“It was just a matter of time,” he said softly.

“What was a matter of time?”

“I felt lucky to be with her- too lucky, like it was all a mistake, like I got somebody else’s good luck by accident. It was like finding a wallet full of cash- you know somebody’s gonna come around looking for it eventually. It was all borrowed time.” Bent over the sink, his broad back shook. His voice was small and choked.

“You ask these fucking questions I can’t answer, and I realize I didn’t know a damn thing about her. I had no part in her life. I didn’t know her family, her friends- I don’t even know where she’s gonna be buried, or when, or who’s gonna do it. Will there be a wake or something? If I showed up, would anybody but the cops know who I was?”

Coyle leaned into the sink and began to retch. I closed the door behind me.

It was gray and raw on Thursday morning, and the clouds scudding above the midtown skyline were full of ice or sleet or stone. In Mike Metz’s office, it didn’t feel much warmer. I’d told him what Jamie Coyle had said, and that I’d basically believed it, and Mike was silent on the other side of his wide ebony desk. Behind his steepled fingers, his narrow face was blank, but his eyes were skeptical and irritated.

“Grief isn’t innocence,” he said finally. “Plenty of killers grieve for their victims; they love feeling sorry for themselves, and that’s another way to do it. This guy has a history of violence”- Mike pointed to my bruised face, and my taped and splinted fingers-“and he all but admitted he’d been worried that Holly was seeing Werner again.”

“He didn’t quite admit to that,” I said, “and he has an alibi. I spoke to the uncle, and it seems to hold water.”

“This would be the same uncle who’s been lying to you and the cops about Coyle’s whereabouts? How long do you think his corroboration will last?”

“There were apparently other people who saw him that Tuesday night.” Mike scowled and shook his head. “Besides which, the guy had my gun, and plenty of time to use it, and instead he gave it back.”

“Which means that with you he had time to think, and with Holly the passions ran higher.”

“You’re reaching.”

“And you’re not, and you should be. It’s your brother on the line, and his wife.”

“If Coyle is no good for Holly’s killing, then I don’t think I’m doing David or Stephanie any favors by making it easier for the cops to find him. If it takes them a couple of days longer to sit him down and figure out he’s clean, then that’s a couple of days more I have to find a viable alternative.”

“That’s assuming you’re right about Coyle, and assuming the cops didn’t already hear about his great alibi from the uncle.”

“According to Kenny, they didn’t ask and he didn’t tell,” I said, and drank some water. My aluminum splint made a bright sound on the glass. “Coyle loved her and he’s grieving, and he hasn’t hotfooted it out of town, though he’s had ample opportunity. On top of which, he’s got a better alibi than either David or Stephanie has.”

Mike’s skepticism was undiminished. “He was our best bet. I think he still is.”

“He’s not going anywhere, Mike, and if I-”

“How do you know he’s not going anywhere?”

I shook my head. “He would’ve gone by now. Look, if I found him, the cops will too, and if they haven’t in a couple of days, we’ll call and give them a hint. In the mean time, Coyle gave me some things to chase.”

“Werner?”

“Coyle says Holly saw him sometime in December. That would’ve been right around the time Vickers came to see her.”

“You’re thinking he had something to do with the blackmail scheme?”

“The timing could work, and apparently Holly was upset about something then.”

“If you believe Coyle,” Mike said.

I shrugged. “Besides Werner, there’s the storage locker.”

He held up a hand. “And I already know more than I want to about that.”

I smiled. “Coward.”

He didn’t smile back, but pointed across the desk. “Just keep the word ‘tampering’ in mind, and be fucking careful.”

“Always,” I said. “You talk to David lately?”

Mike nodded. “I call; he doesn’t say much. I gather he’s sticking close to home.”

“Was he sober?”

Mike shrugged. “He doesn’t say much,” he repeated.

“And Stephanie?”

“She’s agreed to see me this afternoon.”

“That’s progress.”

“Not enough,” Mike said, “and I’m hoping it’s not too late.”

“What happened?”

“Only the inevitable. McCue called; they want her down at Pitt Street tomorrow morning, to talk.”

“Still informally?”

“That’s what they say.”

I walked from Mike’s office down to Grand Central, and caught a 7 train into Queens. I changed to the G in Long Island City, took it south into Brooklyn, and got off at Greenpoint Avenue. I walked east on Greenpoint, north on McGuinness Boulevard, and east again on Freeman.

Creek Self-Store was on Freeman Street, in half of an old brick factory building, on a block that, perhaps because of its proximity to Newtown Creek and to an enormous sewage treatment plant, bore not the slightest gentrifying trace. The cold air made my fingers ache, but it kept the odor down.

I pushed through wired-glass doors into a small lobby. There was a wooden bench, well polished by the seats of many pants, and wall posters with tables of container sizes and prices, and lists of rules and restrictions, most of which amounted to “No Nuclear Waste” and “No Livestock.” There was another pair of wired-glass doors straight ahead and a teller’s window to the left.

Behind the bars was a twentysomething Latina with a gold stud in her nose. She was working on an early lunch or a late breakfast and the lobby smelled of eggs and fried onions. She handed me a clipboard and some forms, and pointed me at the bench. I sat, and fished a pen from my backpack. I took my time on the forms- with my fingers, I had no choice- and I had a good look around the lobby and behind the counter. There was a little office to the right behind the counter, with a fat, bald guy in it. He was busying himself with what looked like a Bud tallboy in a paper bag, and what looked like celebrity poker on the television. On a table beside the girl there were three small video monitors. One showed an oddly angled view of the front doors and another showed a flickering image of a loading dock; the third was gray static. Wholly satisfactory security arrangements, as far as I was concerned. I took out my wallet and brought the forms to the counter.