“What?”
“Now, Bill, I told you this was hypothetical; don’t get upset.”
“Amanda, you’ve only just signed the contracts; it’s a terrific deal!”
“Bill, you haven’t answered my question.”
“The answer is no, not unless Hickock were willing to release you.”
“Nothing I could do, if I wanted out?”
“It’s more about what he could do. He could prevent any other newspaper or magazine from publishing you. All you could do would be to beg him to let you go. What’s this about, Amanda?”
“Bill, this isn’t going to happen; I just like to know where I stand, that’s all.”
“The only way you could get out would be nonperformance on Dick’s part. As long as he pays, you’re stuck with him.”
“Thank you, Bill; just forget I asked, all right?”
“Asked what?”
“Bye, Bill.” She hung up. Well, that was bad news; if Dickie started downhill, he could drag her with him, and all the way to the bottom. She was going to have to nail whoever was publishing DIRT. She had nailed lots of people in her time, but Amanda was not accustomed to going after faceless people with no fixed address.
She picked up the phone to call Stone, then hung up again. She didn’t want to tell him about Hickock’s sub rosa business activities; after all, he was also representing Dick in this matter; she had given him permission to do so. Oh, well, she didn’t have to tell him everything. She picked up the phone again and got connected.
“Stone, darling, I have some information that might be of help,” she said.
“I’m all ears,” Stone replied.
“You remember the issue of DIRT that featured Peebles, the editor of the Infiltrator?”
“Yes.”
“Peebles and I had a chat yesterday; he thinks that an old boyfriend of his might have something to do with this, might even be the one behind it.”
“What’s the old boyfriend’s name?”
“Geoffrey, spelled the English way, Power. At any rate, that’s what he called himself. Peebles thinks he might use more than one name. He’s a failed actor, in L.A. anyway – actually, he failed out there because Peebles screwed him with the studios. He could be in New York.”
“You have anything else on him that might help me locate him?”
“A description.”
“Shoot.”
She read from her notes. “Early to mid-thirties, tall, slender, but strong, sandy hair. Peebles says he’s quite beautiful.”
“Anything else? An address, a phone number?”
“Afraid not, but Peebles thinks he might be in New York; he pulled out of L.A.”
“I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Bye.”
Stone’s immediate thought was that the description fit the man who had been following Tiffany Potts, who looked like the man in the magazine, who had turned out to be Jonathan Dryer. He tried to remember his visit to Dryer’s apartment, but there wasn’t much there. The man had been backlit, standing behind a partially open door, and he had never gotten a good look at him. All he had was the magazine photo. He turned his attention to Geoffrey Power, starting with his computer telephone directory. That contained a hundred million names, but not a single Geoffrey Power. He called Dino.
“Yeah?” Dino said.
“Will you run a name for me?”
“Sure.”
“Last name Power, first name Geoffrey.” Stone spelled it for him.
“Hang on.”
Stone could hear the computer keys clicking.
“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.
Chapter 37
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.”