“I got here that I’m taking you up to Greenwich. North Street, it says.” The Lefcourt residence.
I sat back and watched the Triboro Bridge and the Bruckner Expressway slide by. He got on 95, and there was construction and chaos and lots of dodging and swerving and sudden braking. I was glad I wasn’t driving. Fifty minutes later, he got off in Greenwich, near the train station.
Downtown Greenwich was crowded in the warm late morning, and we picked our way slowly past the low office buildings near the turnpike and through the shopping district to the north. The shop buildings were brick and stone and meticulously maintained, and the shops themselves were gently rusticated versions of their cousins on Madison Avenue. The streets and curbsides were crowded with saurian SUVs and shiny sedans, mostly German. The sidewalks were filled with prosperous matrons and slender young mothers, mostly blond.
We wound our way onto East Putnam, and homes began to appear. They were large and old and Victorian, and comfortable-looking on their well-barbered lots. The lots got larger as we went up Maple Avenue, and larger still on North Street, and the houses receded farther from view. We passed over the Merritt Parkway and drove under a canopy of branches and new leaves, and the lots and houses vanished altogether behind thick hedges and high stone walls.
The Lefcourt spread was a few minutes north of the Merritt, and bordered by a tall, undulating brick wall. We stopped at the wrought-iron gates and a security camera looked us over. The driver spoke to an intercom and the gate swung open and we pulled in. The winding gravel drive was bordered by a blazing cloud of forsythia. It ended in a rising loop around a large circle of lawn and a gnarled oak. On the far side of the circle, at the top of the rise, was the house.
It was a great wedge of fawn-colored shingle, with sage-green trim on the windows and doors, and a foundation of rough gray stone. The faA§ade was asymmetric and busy, studded with window bays and eyebrow dormers and with a deep veranda on the right. Four broad steps led to the front door. The car crunched to a halt by the steps, and I got out.
“I’ll be over there,” the driver said, and he pointed to a low shingled car barn, farther around the gravel circle. I nodded and he drove off. The sun was warm on my shoulders, and the light breeze carried the scents of grass and earth and cedar. It was quiet but for some birds chirping and the soft growl of a distant mower. The front door opened and a woman stepped out and stood at the top of the steps. It was not Linda Sovitch.
She was about five-foot-two, and her gray suit was crisp and angular, like her short dark hair and pale face. She folded her arms across her chest and regarded me with something that might one day- in the distant future- thaw to suspicion. I was wearing a black polo shirt, gray trousers, and black loafers, and I’d left my gun at home. I was presentable, even by Greenwich standards, but she peered at me and sniffed as if I’d been sleeping in the stables.
“Mr. March? I am Mr. Lefcourt’s assistant. We spoke on the telephone.” I recognized the cold officious voice. “Mr. Lefcourt is in his office.” She turned and went back inside. I followed.
“I’m actually here to see Ms. Sovitch,” I said.
She didn’t turn around. “Yes, well… this way.”
The entrance foyer was bright and wide, with paneled walls painted white and dentil molding. The plank floors were a dark shiny brown, and the Persian rugs were mostly red. The coffered ceilings were far away.
I followed the woman into a broad hallway. A stairway with slender balustrades swept along the wall to my left. Straight ahead, its entrance framed by a pair of columns, was a sitting room with tall windows and a marble fireplace, and silk-covered sofas that looked ornamental. I saw a broad swath of lawn through the windows and, in the distance, a flagstone-bordered swimming pool. Two men were working on the pool, peeling back its green covers.
The woman led me down the hall to the right, past more tastefully decorated rooms that bore no signs of use. The hallway ended in a pair of paneled doors. She paused with her hands on the doorknobs and looked as if she were waiting for a drum roll. Finally she pushed the doors open and we went in.
The room was long and low, with a brick fireplace at the far end and a row of French doors to the right that opened onto the porch I’d seen from outside. Near the French doors was a seating area, with a green silk sofa, armchairs, and low tables, all gathered around a large Persian rug. To the left was a wall of built-in shelves in glossy white wood and, toward the far end of the room, a big mahogany partners desk.
Aaron Lefcourt was behind the desk, in a soft-looking leather chair. He had a phone receiver in one hand and a TV remote in the other, and he was talking to someone as he surfed through channels on the big screen mounted behind his desk. He looked much as he had in the BusinessWeek photo- the same dark, wavy hair, the same angry, cherubic features- only fatter and with a tan. He had on linen pants and a raspberry-colored polo shirt that was tight over his round belly. His arms were brown and hairless and thinner than his stomach might suggest. He wore a gold chain on one wrist and a thin gold watch on the other. He glanced at us as we came through the doors and then went back to the TV. His assistant led me into the middle of the room. I looked at the shelves behind Lefcourt.
They were a shrine to Lefcourt and Sovitch, and festooned with testimonials from charities they’d supported, awards bestowed on them, and photos of them with politicians, celebrities, and captains of industry. There were a lot of photos of Sovitch with guests from her show. I didn’t see any with Danes. Lefcourt swiveled in his chair and scowled at my guide and me. The woman herded me toward the sofa. I sat in a chair; she stood.
“You’re worried about nothing, Mikey,” Lefcourt said into the phone as he flicked past Court TV. His voice was medium-deep, with a distinct New York accent. “He’ll go for it ’cause he wants to be a part of the deal. It makes him feel good- like his dick is longer than two inches.” While he listened he shot past BNN and CNN and CNBC, and came to rest on an infomercial for a tooth bleaching device. Lefcourt laughed into the phone. “Trust me, Mikey, will you? Jesus, you’re like a fucking old woman. I’ll be in the office later- call me.” He laughed again and hung up and looked at me. He tapped a button on his phone console.
“Yeah, he’s here now. Send Jimmy in.” Lefcourt hung up the phone and came out from behind his desk. He was about five-foot-ten, and his movements were clumsy but energetic. He went to the end of the room, to a sideboard near the fireplace. There was a chrome carafe on it and china cups and saucers. Lefcourt started pouring.
“You want coffee, March?”
“Black is fine,” I said.
He turned to his assistant. “You just going to hang around like the maA®tre d’?” The woman’s pale face was opaque. She turned and left without a word. A moment later, the double doors opened again.
A big guy came in. He was bald and ham-faced, and his coloring was bad. He was the guy I’d seen with Sovitch at the Manifesto Diner, still dressed in black. Lefcourt paused in the middle of the room and watched as the big guy produced a digital camera. It was nearly lost in his huge hands. He peered at me through the viewfinder and flashed away. I sat still and said nothing. He took five or six shots and looked at Lefcourt, who nodded and looked at me as he spoke.
“That’s good, Jimmy. Make sure everybody gets copies.”
“Maybe you’d like some profiles,” I said.
Jimmy looked a little confused. Lefcourt looked annoyed and motioned with his head toward the door. Jimmy left. Lefcourt put my coffee on a small table and took his to the sofa. He drank his coffee and looked at me.
“I guess you don’t mind having your picture taken,” he said. I smiled. “And I guess you won’t mind if we hand it out, to the local police, maybe, or the security guys at the studio.”