“And because I’m her sponsor, or the next thing to it, and she didn’t want me to catch her acting like a whore.”
“You really think that’s what she was doing?”
“Oh, no question. A refined whore, though. I mean, what did she do? Touch the back of his hand? It’s not as if she grabbed him by the dick.”
An hour later, after I’d put in some time at the computer while she returned to her novel, it occurred to me to wonder why.
“Why touch his hand? To get him interested.”
“Obviously,” I said, “but why? You think she wants to go to bed with him?”
“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t.” She marked her place, closed her book. “Part of it’s reflex,” she said. “Even before she started turning tricks, probably long before it ever occurred to her, she learned how to relate to guys.”
“Touch their hands.”
“Get them interested,” she said. “Touching is one way to do that.”
“So that’s all it is?”
She shook her head. “She’d want him to like her. She’d want him on her side. He came here to do us a favor, but he was also doing her a favor, and he might do a better job or go an extra mile if he liked her.”
“And would he?”
“Not consciously,” she said, “but sure. Didn’t you extend yourself more for the clients you liked? I don’t mean sexually. You liked some of the people you worked for more than some of the others.”
“Early on,” I remembered, “I preferred to work for clients I didn’t like. Because it wouldn’t bother me as much to disappoint them. But I guess you’re right. You work harder for the ones you like.”
“It’s only natural.”
And, I wondered, had she herself worked harder to please some johns than others? Slipped with them into a deeper level of intimacy? Played her part with more enthusiasm? Held in reserve certain acts she’d only perform with the chosen ones?
I didn’t ask. I could have, and if the matter obsessed me I probably would have, but I didn’t feel the need. The years she’d spent in the profession had been a natural outgrowth of the girl she’d been, even as they’d since become a part of who she was now.
I said, “I can see her wanting to motivate him with a little intimacy. But afterward the sketch was finished and he was on his way home to wife and children—”
“A reward for a job well done.”
“Oh.”
“And to show that she still liked him even after there was no longer anything to get from him. And I was out of the room.”
“While I’d never notice.”
“Sure you would. You’re a detective, you’re observant by nature. And if you noticed, that was all to the good. Because it gave her a chance to flirt with you at one remove. ‘I’m a kind of a sexy lady, and I like guys, and if the circumstances were right it’d be your hand I was touching.’ ”
I didn’t say anything, and I guess I was looking off into the middle distance, because she said, “What?”
“I was thinking of the little fantasy we shared yesterday.”
“The two-person threesome? Now there’s a surprise. Whoever could have guessed you’d think of that? And what exactly were you thinking?”
“That she didn’t have to prove anything to me. That I already knew she was a sexy lady, because I remembered all the stuff she did with such enthusiasm. And then I had to remind myself that she hadn’t done anything because she wasn’t even in the room.”
At the breakfast table the next morning Elaine announced that she was on her way to a yoga class. Did she look all right?
She was wearing a tailored jacket in Black Watch plaid over a blue silk top and a pair of black jeans.
I said, “For yoga class? That’s a big step up from baggy sweat pants and a Mötley Crüe T-shirt.”
She held up her gym bag, a carry-on from a defunct airline. “Sweats and a top,” she said. “They’re not that baggy.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t even own a Mötley Crüe shirt. The closest I come is The Bad Plus T-shirt you insisted on buying for me when we saw them at the Vanguard. And it’s in the wash.”
“Whatever you say.”
“After yoga,” she said, “I have to meet with a priest.”
“If you actually confess everything—”
“A Croatian priest.”
“Oh.”
“What we decided at yesterday’s meeting,” she said, “is our Tuesday noon meeting isn’t enough. We’d like to schedule an evening meeting.”
“In the same church.”
“If they’ve got the space available. We’re trying for Fridays, but we’ll take Thursdays if we have to.”
“Friday would be good,” I said.
“Not too close to Tuesday. Plus from a purely selfish point of view, that’s when you’ve got your regular meeting at St. Paul’s.”
“Two birds,” I said.
“Well, a bird for each of us. So that’d be two birds and two stones. I’ll have an hour between yoga and when I’m supposed to meet Marjorie on the corner. Then we walk to the church and meet with Father Tomislav. And then we’ll probably have lunch. I’ll let you know if I’m going to be late.” She made a face. “You know what? This blouse is wrong.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s too blue,” she said, “and too clingy.”
She went to change and I took what was left of my coffee into the living room. I was looking at Ray’s sketch of Ellen’s stalker — a photocopy, the original pencil sketch was safely tucked away — when she returned, the blue silk blouse replaced by an Oxford cloth shirt with a button-down collar.
“Still blue,” I pointed out.
“But not too blue. Do I look okay?”
“To meet a priest? Perfect, I’d say. You look like an altar boy.”
She left, and half an hour later so did I. It had rained some during the night, but now the sun was out. I caught the southbound One train at Columbus Circle and got off at Twenty-Eighth Street and Seventh Avenue. That put me just one block north of Ellen’s apartment, but a good half-mile west of it.
I took my time walking across town. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in that part of the city, and for years I’d taken pride in how well I knew the town, how frequently I walked its streets. Not too many years ago, unless I was in a hurry I might have skipped the subway and walked the whole way. A couple of miles on a perfect fall morning? Why not?
Well, my knee was one answer to that question, but not the only one. It would take me longer these days, because my pace is slower than it used to be. And it would take energy, of which I seem to have a finite supply. I’d find places to stop along the way. A bench in Bryant Park, if my route took me there. A coffee shop, a pizza stand.
And I wasn’t just taking the air, or walking for exercise, or killing time. I had a job to do. I had a client, I was working.
Or going through the motions. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
Until she fled, first to a hotel and then to an Upper West Side sublet, Ellen Lipscomb had lived in a six-story limestone-front building on the south side of East 27th Street between Third and Lexington. The front door was up a half-flight of concrete steps, and opened into a vestibule. I went in and had a look at the double column of buttons on my left. Each had a slot next to it for the tenant’s name. Three or four of them had elected to remain anonymous, while the rest ranged from embossed labels available from locksmith shops to printed names cut from business cards, all the way down to hand-lettered scraps of paper like the one next to button 4-B. No first name, not even an initiaclass="underline" LIPSCOMB.
I rang the bell. I didn’t expect a response, and didn’t get one. I counted buttons and did the math, and determined what I’d already suspected: that there were four apartments to a floor. 4-B would be either right front or left rear.