Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“Do you remember what he said in his voice mail- when he told you he was taking vacation?”

She nodded. “I remember. It wasn’t a long message- something like I’m out of here for three weeks- starting now. Tell whoever you’re supposed to tell. Good luck.”

“That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?” She shook her head. “Any thoughts about his timing- about why he left when he did?”

She pursed her lips and ran a hand absently through her hair. “I know he was pissed off about a lot of things- the lawsuits, all the bad press, Tampon- and he had been for a while. I guess it all just got to him that day. Tampon was the last straw.” Pratt worried her lower lip and checked and rechecked her watch. She glanced down the block, toward her apartment building.

“Has anyone besides me come looking for Danes? Has anyone else called or come to see you?”

“As far as visitors go, you’re it, but people call for Greg all the time. If it’s business they talk to me or one of the other analysts; otherwise we refer them to Nancy Mayhew.”

“He ever do anything like this before- just take unscheduled vacation time?”

Pratt nodded. “Two or three times, I guess, but then he called after a few days and told us when he’d be back.”

“But he hasn’t called this time, and he hasn’t come back. Any idea why?”

Pratt got quiet and looked away, at the street beyond my shoulder. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I just don’t know.”

“Are you worried about him?”

Pratt’s eyes were large and dark behind her glasses. She looked at me for a long time and nodded.

Peter Spiegelman

JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home

It was a long run- two miles up, six miles around, and two miles back home- and I was right in the middle of it, at the north end of Central Park, on the steep climb up one side of Great Hill. It was five-fifteen, just past dawn, and the thin clouds that had brought showers overnight had begun to fray. The pavement was still wet and traffic was light: a few cabs, a few black cars, an aggressive peloton of racing bikes, and some other solitary runners, cocooned in thoughts and breath. I leaned into the hill and tried not to gasp. My own thoughts turned to Nina Sachs and her family.

It had been close to ten last night when I’d walked from Clark Street down Old Fulton to Water Street. Brooklyn was cooler, and the breeze off the river had sent a chill through me. Lights were burning in Sachs’s loft and also at street level, in the I-2 Galeria de Arte, Brooklyn branch. I stood at the big glass door and looked inside.

It was a huge space, as large as Sachs’s loft, with bleached wood floors and a wall of sidewalk-to-ceiling windows. The other walls were white, and a dense constellation of lights hung from the ceiling. Also hanging- from ceiling-mounted tracks- was a platoon of room dividers, movable walls of various widths presently arranged to divide the gallery into three exhibition bays. In the foreground, about ten yards inside the door, was a long mahogany counter, chest high and elaborately paneled.

There were people in the gallery, a skinny young woman with bleached hair, camo pants, and a T-shirt that let her midriff peek through, and an even skinnier young man with shiny blue bellbottoms and a steel ball through his nose. They were sealing and hauling wooden crates with impressive speed and skill. There were two opened wine bottles on the long counter, and three glasses, and an ashtray with a smoldering cigarette. I heard music through the glasssomething thudding and techno.

Ines Icasa came through a door at the back of the gallery. Her hair was pulled back and she paused in mid-stride when she saw me. She was perfectly still for a moment, and then she moved again, walking to the counter, plucking her cigarette from the ashtray, and waving me in.

I pushed open the heavy door. The music got louder and I felt the bass in my gut. I smelled tobacco and sawdust and wood polish. The skinny people looked up from their crates and eyed me speculatively. Ines called me over.

“A?QuA© tal? Just passing through the neighborhood, detective, or are you shopping for some art?” I smiled. Ines took a deep hit off her cigarette and reached for a wineglass. She poured some red wine, showed me the bottle, and raised her nice eyebrows. I shook my head. Ines frowned melodramatically and poured herself some more. I heard a noise from the end of the counter, and a foot, wearing something like a bowling shoe, slid into view. I walked over and looked down. It was Billy.

He was sitting on the floor on a huge paisley pillow, his back against the end of the counter. There were earphones on his head that snaked off to a sleek MP3 player hooked to his belt, and there was a spiral notebook and a thick text-Trigonometry: An Introduction- open in his lap. He raised his head and looked at me, blankly at first and then with recognition, but without discernable interest. He had a pencil in his teeth and a bottle of Sprite at his side. He was wearing baggy pants and a T-shirt again, but he’d swapped the Talking Heads lyric for a blowup of a Dr. Strange comic book cover. I raised a hand in greeting. Billy looked at me for a while and nodded minutely. I pointed at his shirt.

“Master of the Mystic Arts,” I said. “One of my favorites- though he’s no Batman, of course.”

Billy winced theatrically and let the pencil fall into his lap. “Batman’s a pussy,” he said softly, and turned again to his book.

I laughed. “I’ll let him know you said that.”

“He is working, detective, and he is very focused,” Ines said. She put a hand on my arm and led me back down the counter. “Are you sure I cannot get you something? Something stronger than wine, perhaps.” I shook my head. There was a moist sheen to the smooth skin of her face, and her big almond eyes were gleaming.

“Trig’s advanced for a twelve-year-old, isn’t it?” I asked. “It seems to me I studied it in high school.”

Ines smiled proudly and nodded. “Guillermo has always been many years advanced in maths. He takes most of his classes in the upper school.” She glanced at the skinny man and woman, who had gone back to sliding wooden crates around. “We are packing up the last of an exhibition,” Ines said. “Iguacu, we called it- the work of five painters from the ParanA? region of Brazil. They are very talented, and the show was well received.”

“I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I will add you to our mailing list. You will never have to miss another.” She drank some more wine. Her glass was nearly empty.

“Nina upstairs?” I asked.

“She is expecting you,” Ines said.

“Then I’d better not keep her waiting.” Ines nodded, and I started for the door. Halfway there I stopped and turned back to her. “You have any thoughts on where he might be?” Ines looked at me. She shook her head slowly and blew out a cloud of smoke.

Upstairs, Nina Sachs was still working. I’d rung twice and waited several minutes for her to answer. She wore a paint-splattered T-shirt and jeans, and she was barefoot. She had a smoke in one hand and a paintbrush in the other and her hazel eyes were jumpy, but she’d smiled when she opened the door.

“Back here,” she said, and walked quickly across the loft to her studio. The place was a mess again, as if Ines had never cleaned it, and the smell was back. I followed Nina’s smoke trail to her easel. Her little stereo was pounding out The Subdudes.

“Pull up a chair.” She pointed to the beat-up armchair in the corner. “I’m doing busywork now, so I can talk.” I turned the stereo down a notch and dragged the chair closer and sat. Nina paced back and forth before her canvas, and occasionally daubed at it, and sang along with The Subdudes as I spoke. She never interrupted and she never glanced in my direction. I told her about my trip to Pace-Loyette and my discussion with Irene Pratt, and about the long list of lawsuits and arbitration claims that Danes was involved in. When I was through, she stepped away from the easel, lit another cigarette, and leaned her hips against the utility sink.