Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“So, basically, you haven’t found out anything.” She said it matter-of-factly.

“I haven’t found out much. But we know that the people at Pace are worried-”

“I knew that before,” Sachs interrupted.

I nodded. “We know that someone else is looking for him-”

“But not who it is.”

“And we know that Irene Pratt is genuinely concerned about him. As far as I can tell, she’s one of the people closest to him, and she has no clue of where he went or why he hasn’t returned.”

Nina laughed nastily. “What did you think of Pratt? She’s like a frustrated librarian, isn’t she? Or the nun who secretly lusts for the priest.”

“You think she and Danes had a thing?”

Nina shook her head and chuckled. “She’s not his type. She’s smart enough, but Greg likes a jagged little pill- he likes them edgy. Pratt’s too much of a schoolgirl. But she was interested, God only knows why. No accounting for taste, I guess.”

“I guess not,” I said. “Though you must have thought he had something going for him- once upon a time.”

She snorted. “Sure I did- back when I was fresh out of art school and fighting with my parents over the dump I was living in and the shithole where I waited tables. Back then I thought Greg was a hoot. He was smart and he knew it, and he had no time for people who weren’t. And unlike most of the wannabe bohemians I hung with back then, he actually liked what he was doing, he made good money doing it, and he planned to make a lot more. Plus, he was fucking funny, too. He’d say anything to anybody, and he didn’t give a damn who he pissed off. He was a real poke in the eye back then, and so was I. Maybe I still am.”

Nina looked at her high ceiling and blew out a long cord of smoke.

“’Course, all that gets old fast when you live with it every day and he decides he’s smarter than you are and you’re just there to fetch and carry while he’s out conquering the universe.” She ran a hand through her hair and crossed her arms and looked at me. A fleck of ash floated past her ear. “You really are a nosy bastard.”

I shrugged. “Like I said, it’s part of what you’re paying for.”

She rubbed her chin with the back of her hand and puffed on her cigarette. “Yeah, well… what else do I get? What’s next?”

“Next Monday I get into his apartment. That should tell us something. Between now and then, I keep an eye out for whoever else might be looking for Danes, and I try to talk to Linda Sovitch.”

“Isn’t that risky?” Sachs said. “Talking to her is kind of… public.”

“Sure. She gets wind that he’s missing- and for how long- and it could be all over cable the same night. And there’s not much I can do to finesse it. But he did have lunch with her on the day he walked out of the office, and according to Pratt she was one of his few friends, so it’s hard to ignore her. Besides, some press coverage might not be a bad thing. If he’s near a TV, it might flush him out. And maybe he won’t find out who broke the story- or how.”

Sachs looked skeptical. “He’d be so pissed-”

“Assuming he’s in a position to be.” She squinted at me. “I want you to think about the police, Nina,” I said.

“No fucking way. I told you, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Nina, his employers are worried, the closest thing to a friend of his that I’ve been able to find is worried, even I’m worried- and I’ve never met the guy. You should be worried too.”

She looked at me and sucked on her cigarette and shook her head slowly. “Okay, okay, talk to Sovitch- but be discreet, for chrissakes. Give me some time to think about the cops.” I wasn’t sure how much discretion was possible, but I had nodded anyway and left.

The grade eased as I neared the top of Great Hill, and I backed off my pace a little. My heart was pounding and my breathing was fast and shallow. I lengthened my stride and inhaled slowly and deeply. A well-muscled woman in Rollerblades, spandex, and a helmet like a shark fin passed me going in the opposite direction. She was pushing off smoothly, her face lit with anticipation of the downhill glide.

By the time I reached the Loch and the 100th Street entrance, I no longer felt as if my heart would explode. The North Meadow was to my left. They were laying sod there, and I could smell the mulch and the wet earth and the grass. The sky was lighter now, and sunlight touched the crenellated line of buildings along Central Park West.

I passed the 97th Street transverse and wondered if Irene Pratt was awake yet. She’d been only slightly wobbly when I’d dropped her at her door last night, but she’d been awash in an anxious silence. Today she would have a bad case of regrets.

My heart rate was steady as I came to the Reservoir. I shook out my arms and breathed deeply, and my thoughts shifted again- this time to Jane.

It was near midnight when I’d gotten back from Brooklyn, and my head had been full of Nina and Billy and Ines. There’d been lights in Jane’s windows, but I hadn’t gone to her apartment. I went to mine, instead, and poured a glass of water and stood in the kitchen. There was a travel magazine on the counter, open to an article about Venice. I turned the pages as I drank and looked at pictures of the Piazza San Marco and the Ponte di Rialto and the exquisite windows of exquisite shops near the Ponte dell’Accademia. I wondered what it would be like to go there with Jane, and walk with her on the bridges, and sit with her in the cafA©s into the wee hours. And then- from nowhere- I thought of my Proustian moment on Columbus Avenue, and my wondering turned to how long we might stay in Venice, and whether it was a runner’s town, and how I would get in my miles with all that water and all those crowds. A surge of annoyance rushed up my spine and I pushed the magazine away.

I went into the living room and pulled a book from the shelf and sat with it in my lap and didn’t read. I listened for half an hour to Jane’s kickboxing workout- the thump-thump-whump of her beating crap out of the heavy bag that hangs in a corner of her loft- and when the pummeling stopped I listened to my telephone ring. I sat for a while after it went quiet, and then I peeled off my clothes and got into bed. I lay there, watching the play of lights across the ceiling, listening to the rain, until about four-thirty, when I’d pulled on my running clothes.

I still didn’t know why I hadn’t called her or answered her call, or why it had taken so long for my irritation to subside, or why there was a trace of fear in its wake. I didn’t know why I couldn’t sleep.

I was covered in a skin of sweat, and my joints were loose and springy now. A lot of oxygen was bubbling around in my brain. The Museum of Natural History was on my right, bathed in yellow light. I shortened my stride and picked up the pace.

It was nearly six when I got home, and nearly seven by the time I’d stretched and showered and shaved. I came out of the bedroom and there was a note under the front door. The stationery was heavy ivory-colored stock and the printing was angular and precise, like an architect’s. It was from Jane.

Dinner? Call me.

I put the card on the kitchen counter, by the tulips that were shedding their petals. I flicked the coffee machine on and spooned yogurt into a bowl with a sliced apple and some granola. And then I thought about how I might get in touch with Linda Sovitch.

Sovitch was a star of sorts, the most recognizable of BNN’s talking heads and the host of its most successful show. As such, she would be attended by a cadre of PAs, flacks, and other assorted minders, wrapped around her like the skin of an onion and paid to keep riffraff like me at arm’s length. If I wanted to wait a few days, I could root around for some friend of a friend of a friend who might know one of Sovitch’s gatekeepers and might arrange a proper introduction. But I didn’t want to wait a few days. I wanted to talk to Sovitch soon, and that required something more direct. I called Tom Neary.