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.”
“Fine with me. Glad to have you aboard.”
Cantor tucked the manila envelope under his arm, grabbed the two trash bags, and started looking for a cab.
Chapter 38
Stone was working at his desk when he heard the street door open, and a moment later Bob Cantor walked into his office carrying two garbage bags.
“Never say I didn’t give you anything,” Cantor said, dropping the two bags on the floor and depositing a manila envelope on Stone’s desk. “Dryer jumped his lease and moved out of the apartment last weekend.” He grinned. “Nice place; I rented it.”
“Did he leave anything in the apartment?” Stone asked.
Cantor pointed at the garbage bags. “If he did, it’s in there. His phone bills are in the envelope; the landlord says he made a lot of long distance calls.” He pulled up a chair.
Stone opened the envelope and shook out the phone bills.
“The phone was in the landlord’s name; last four digits are 1232.”
Stone began going through the bills. “L.A., L.A., L.A. Jesus, he lived there for what…?”
“Eight months.”
“And he never called anywhere but L.A.? Hard to believe.”
“Yeah.”
“And only one number,” Stone said. He turned to his computer, inserted a CD-ROM, and brought up his national telephone directory. He typed in the L.A. phone number and waited while the computer searched. “Here we go,” he said, “the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, in West Hollywood. When did you say that Dryer moved out?”
“Sometime between last Friday and Wednesday.”
“Look, he’s called this number virtually every day, sometimes three or four times a day.”
Stone picked up the phone and dialed the L.A. number.
“Santa Fe,” a man’s voice said.
“Hello,” Stone said, “this is Detective Cantor of the New York City Police Department.”
“Thanks a lot,” Cantor whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a regular apartment building there, or what?”
“Short-term furnished apartments, by the week or month.”
“I’m trying to reach someone who may have moved out last Wednesday or Thursday; could you check your records and tell me who that might be? I don’t have a name.”
“Don’t need a name,” the man said. The sound of pages turning came over the phone “Only one person has moved out in the past couple of weeks. We stay pretty full.”