Stuart Woods - Dirt

“He’s never been arrested,” Dino said.

“Try the alias database.”

More key clicking. “Zip,” Dino said.

“Thanks. How’s it going with the apartment?”

“We’re meeting the board this afternoon; I took your advice and bought a suit. When the meeting’s over I’ll give it to you.”

“You’re sweet. See you.” He hung up and tried New York telephone information, new listings. If Power had just moved to town, he might be there. Nothing. He called Amanda.

“Yes?”

“He doesn’t have a telephone in the United States, or one in New York; he’s never been arrested. That’s all I can do with a name, especially one that might be an alias. You’ll have to get me some more information.”

“I don’t think I can,” she replied.

“Then it’s a dead end.”

Stone had an idea. “Have you got a copy of the new Vanity Fair handy?”

“Of course.”

“Call Peebles and tell him to look at the ad for Spirit men’s cologne.” He gave her the page number. “See if the guy in the ad looks familiar. I’d like to hear his response.”

“I’ll get back to you.” She hung up.

Half an hour later, she called back.

“The resemblance is close, but it’s not Power, Peebles says. How did you come up with that picture?”

“It arose in connection with something else. The description seemed to fit.”

“Oh, good. Keep on this Power person, will you?”

“Amanda, there’s nothing more I can do until we get more information on the guy. As it stands, he’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke.”

She hung up without another word.

Bob Cantor got out of the cab on Second Avenue and walked down the block until he found the building. “Basement apartment,” he mumbled to himself, consulting the address Stone had given him. He walked down the steps to the apartment door and found it ajar; the smell of paint reached him. He pushed the door open. The living room was empty and freshly painted. He heard the rattle of a bucket from a rear room and walked that way.

A middle-aged man in paint-stained jeans and sweatshirt was rapidly rolling paint onto a bedroom wall. He looked at Cantor. “Sorry, I’m not showing the apartment until tomorrow, when the ad runs in the Times, ” he said.

Cantor showed him his badge briefly. “I’m looking for Jonathan Dryer,” he said.

“So am I,” the man replied. “He owes me four months’ rent.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last Friday, when I was going away. When I came back on Wednesday, he was gone, and the place was empty. Four months he owes me; that’s how long his lease had to run.”

“Mind if I look around?”

“Help yourself.” He went back to painting.

Cantor walked slowly around the apartment, looking in closets and drawers. It was a nice place, he thought. Good kitchen, nicely done bathroom. Cantor was living in Chelsea, and he thought he wouldn’t mind living uptown. All the closets, drawers, and cabinets were empty. He went back to the bedroom and walked out the rear door, which opened onto a small terrace and a garden area behind. There was nothing in the way of planting, but there was soil; soil was a valuable real estate asset in New York. He went back inside.

“Nice place,” he said. “Who’s the agent?”

“No agent; I own the building. I live on the top two floors.”

“How much you asking?”

The man told him.

“How much less would you take to have a guy with a badge living here?”

The man looked at him narrowly. “You married?”

“Divorced.”

“Any kids?”

“None.”

“You play any musical instruments?”

“The stereo, softly.”

“I’d need a police reference.”

“Call Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth, around the corner.”

“I’ll do that. If you check out, it would be worth a couple hundred off for a cop.”

“Retired cop, actually, but that’s even better for you. I’d be spending more time in the building than somebody who has to pull duty.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bob Cantor.”

“How long a lease you want?”

“Three years would be good.”

“You wait here; I’ll be right back.” The man left and came back ten minutes later. “Bacchetti says you’re okay; give me a check for a month’s rent and a security deposit, and the place is yours.”

Cantor wrote him a check.

“My name’s Jim O’Brian.” He stuck out his hand.

Cantor shook it. “Back to this guy Dryer; tell me about him.”

“He kept to himself, didn’t make any noise. I only saw him coming and going, or when he paid the rent. Always paid in cash, which was okay with me.”

“How long was he here?”

“Eight months.”

“Anybody room with him?”

“A long string of girls, one night at a time.”

“Any guys visiting him?”

“He was straight, believe me.”

“I mean friends staying over a few days, that sort of thing.”

“Not that I recall.”

“When he rented the place, did you take an application from him?”

“No, I don’t bother with written applications if the renter looks okay. I never got burned until now.”

“What did Dryer do for a living?”

“Said he was a filmmaker.”

“You ever see any evidence of that?”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Cameras, film equipment?”

“The only equipment Dryer had here was a computer, a copy machine, and a fax machine. Pretty neat computer, though – Pentium, fast laser printer, big monitor.”

“Did Dryer apply for his own phone service?”

“Nah, the phone’s on my bill. Shit! I forgot about the phone bill. That’s more money out of my pocket.”

“Did he make many long distance calls?”

“Yeah, quite a few.”

“Could I have a look at your phone bills? I’d like to know who he was calling.”

“I’ve got to go upstairs and get you a lease form; I’ll dig them out for you.”

“One more thing; did Dryer leave anything here?”

“Nothing but trash.”

“Has it been picked up yet?”

“No, it’ll still be out in the alley next to the building. There’s two plastic bags in the first can. It has a ‘B’ on it, for basement.”

“Thanks, Jim, I’ll take a look at that while you get the lease and the phone bills – all eight months, if you’ve got them.”

“I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Cantor followed him outside, walked into the alley, and found the garbage cans. There were three bags; one of them contained uninteresting kitchen garbage, the others a lot of paper and magazines. He pulled out the two bags of paper and walked back to the front of the building. O’Brian was coming down the front steps.

“Standard lease; I’ve already signed it,” he said, handing Cantor the document.

“What about subleasing?”

“No problem, if I approve the tenant.”

Cantor signed the lease, kept a copy, and handed it back. “Jim, you really ought to start taking a written application from your tenants; there are a lot of bad people out there.”

“You’re probably right; was Dryer one of them? Why are you checking up on him?”

“He did something impolite to a friend of a friend of mine. I was just going to talk to him and tell him not to do it again. Don’t worry about him; if he walked out on his lease, you won’t be seeing him again.”

O’Brian nodded and handed Cantor a manila envelope. “Here are the phone bills. The basement number is 1232.”

“Can I borrow these for a day?”

“Sure, but I need them back for my taxes.”

“I’ll get them back to you. Thanks, Jim; I’ll probably move in at the weekend, if that’s okay.”