It wasn’t a huge place, but it was well appointed. The doors were solid and the walls were thick; the switches and fixtures were European, and the kitchen appliances were top-of-the-line. Except for the brushed-steel kitchen and the marble baths, all the rooms were painted white and carpeted in the same gray pile as the foyer.
The rooms were furnished sparely with modern Italian pieces. Everything was sleek and aerodynamic-looking, and the colors were muted- grays and tans and olives- except for a cherry-red sofa in the living room, an acid-green armchair in the master bedroom, and a bank of neon-orange bookshelves in the office. The walls were mostly bare, and what was hanging was abstract and bland. The apartment looked not so much decorated as delivered whole from a showroom in Milan. I finished my walk in the kitchen and leaned against a counter and sighed.
“Fucking Christopher,” I said aloud.
The place had already been tossed, and not carefully. It wasn’t heavy-handed- the sofas hadn’t been upended and the beds hadn’t been gutted- but it was plain nonetheless. The apartment, though clean and neat throughout, was off-kilter, like a deck of cards that has been shuffled but not squared. The countertops were spotless and the wastebaskets were clean- even the soap dishes were pristine- but the closet doors were ajar and so were the drawers, and their contents, though hung and folded, were askew and misaligned. I lowered my expectations and started searching.
The refrigerator was sparse but not bare. There were condiments, a carton of eggs, a bottle of seltzer, ground coffee, and a magnum of champagne inside, but no leftovers and nothing with a short shelf life. That could mean Danes had emptied it out before he left, or that his cleaner had, or it could mean he didn’t eat at home much. In New York City it was hard to tell. The freezer was empty but for the ice trays.
There was nothing of interest in the drawers or cabinets. The china and silver were good but not extravagant, and the pots and pans and cutlery looked unused. The pantry was stocked with Swiss breakfast cereal, tea bags, canned soup, and expensive cookies, but with no hints of Danes’s whereabouts.
There was nothing in the dining room besides an aluminum and glass dining table, eight spindly aluminum chairs, and a sideboard in bleached wood. The sideboard was empty. I moved on to the living room.
The walls were glass at the crook of the V, with doors that opened onto a V-shaped terrace. The view was south and east, and the room was full of light. The thin clouds were close enough to touch. Besides the red sofa, the room was dominated by a gleaming black baby grand piano and a wall of built-in cabinets. I opened one of the cabinet doors. Inside was music.
There were shelves of it, from floor to ceiling- CDs and vinyl, lots of vinyl. I slid some records out. They were all classical, and each was sleeved in clear plastic. Behind other doors was the stereo, though that was hardly an adequate term for it. It was a wall of black metal technology: a pre-amp and amplifier- with actual vacuum tubesan impossibly complicated equalizer, a disc player, a separate disc changer, and a black-and-silver turntable that looked like something you could mill plutonium with.
There were file-sized drawers at the base of the cabinets. I opened them and thumbed through the papers inside. It was sheet music, all for piano and organized by composer: Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart. The pages were well handled and annotated in pencil at the margins.
I headed down the hallway to the master bedroom and froze. There were voices in the corridor outside. They were muffled by the thick walls, but they were men’s voices and they were coming closer. I heard keys jangle, and the voices got louder and someone laughed. Then the elevator doors opened with a clank, and the voices dimmed. They closed, and it was quiet. I started breathing again and felt sweat trickle down my back. My shoulders were stiff and I rolled them around and went into the bedroom.
It was a large room, with not much in it: a glowing green chair like something from a Star Trek episode, a king-sized bed with built-in nightstands, and more built-in cabinetry. A door to my right led to a deep walk-in closet, and another led to the master bath. The bed was made up. The bedding was pale green and felt expensive. There were no clothes lying around. I started with the cabinets.
Inside were a big flat-screen TV, a DVD player, and a cable box. Danes’s DVD collection was modest, nothing like his music wall and distinctly lower-brow: action flicks, science fiction, some frat-boy farces. They were sorted by genre and title.
There were pictures on one of the nightstands, in silver frames: one of a younger Billy near the polar bear pool at the Central Park Zoo; another of Billy and Danes by the seal tank. It was blurry and looked like Danes had been holding the camera at arm’s length when he’d taken it.
There was an alarm clock and a telephone on the other nightstand. I picked up the phone and hit the redial button. It rang four times and a heavily accented voice answered: “Garage.” I stayed on long enough to establish that it was the place Danes parked his car and then hung up. The nightstand drawers held little of interest: pens, notepads, a bag of cough drops, a package of tissues. The shelves underneath were empty but for a slim red restaurant guide and a TV remote. There was nothing under the bed or under the mattress. I went into the bathroom.
It was a beige marble temple to the gods of hygiene and evacuation. There was a long counter with two fancy German sinks, a Japanese-style soaking tub, and a glass-walled shower with seating for six and more knobs, spouts, and hoses than a submarine. The toilet and bidet were sequestered in a little marble chapel of their own. They were low-slung and futuristic and seemed unsuited to human anatomy. The medicine cabinet was above the sinks, behind a mirrored panel. I pressed on it and it opened with a hiss.
Inside was a collection of toiletries and drugs. The toiletries were all high-end, and the drugs were over-the-counter and unremarkable: aspirin, antacids, eye drops, and vitamins.
There was a linen closet next to the soaking tub, stocked with sheets, thick towels, toilet paper, a first-aid kit, and a box of condoms. There was nothing exceptional about the condoms- they were a simple domestic brand, without bells or whistles- but they suggested that Danes had a sex life. I went back to the bedroom, to the big closet.
It was actually a wood-paneled room, done up like a little slice of Paul Stuart. Clothes hung in double racks on either side, and like his collections of music and movies, Danes’s wardrobe was ruthlessly organized. Business attire on the left, casual clothing on the right, accompanied by appropriate belts and ties; everything sorted by season and color. His shoes were mustered in neat rows on shelves below the hanging clothes. There were empty hangers on the casual side, and gaps in the platoon of casual shoes- at least two pairs were gone.
There was a wide bureau at the back of the closet, with built-in shelves above it; a set of brown leather luggage was on the highest one. The bags were empty, but there seemed to be one missing from the set- something larger than an airplane carry-on but smaller than a trunk. I put the bags back and went through the bureau.
The top drawer held hardware: watches, cuff links, collar stays, belt buckles. The others held clothing: underwear in one drawer, socks in another, pajamas in the next. Then I opened the bottom drawer.
They were in matching sets- pale blue, pale gray, green, maroon, and black- all the same expensive Italian brand: bras and panties, neatly folded. I didn’t think they were Danes’s size. Along with the lingerie, there was a woman’s green polo shirt in the drawer, a pair of faded jeans, and the faintest trace of a musky scent. Beneath the jeans, there was a green leather clutch bag with a silver clasp. The leather was soft and had a matte finish. The clasp was tarnished. Inside the bag was a leaky blue pen, a folded credit card receipt, a dusty roll of mints, and three quarters. I unfolded the receipt. It was from a little French restaurant on Lexington, a few blocks from Danes’s apartment, and it was over a year old. The print was faded but still legible in the light, and so was the signature scrawled across the bottom: Linda Sovitch.