“What if it was a woman with a poodle?” April murmured.
Sergeant Joyce laughed again. “You find that, and I’ll buy you both the best dinner you ever had.”
“Deal,” Mike said. He got up to leave.
April stopped him in the hall. “If that’s what we find, do we have to eat the dinner with her?”
“Cute, real cute.”
They trudged back through the squad room and climbed the stairs to locate the exiled Lieutenant Braun.
“This is some shithole” were the Lieutenant’s first words when they appeared at the door of his assigned “office.” Looking around, they couldn’t disagree.
34
After the storm passed, the air was clear and fresh. Just before they left for Fairfield, Bouck and Camille surveyed the damage to the canopy over the store. The canvas was torn, and the exposed metal frame was pretty badly bent on one side, but it didn’t look as if it would come down on somebody’s head anytime soon.
Camille breathed deeply, hugging the puppy in her arms. Her own storm was over, too, and for the first time in weeks, her head was clear. The red cloud was gone. She could see, talk, eat.
“Why don’t I design a new one,” she suggested. “Something classy. What do you say?”
“Hey, this isn’t classy?” Bouck demanded, pointing to what could be seen of the gray canvas hanging off the frame. It was years old, cracked, and dirty. The “T” and “Q” from the word “Antiques” were almost completely worn away by the constant drip of the air conditioner above.
Camille was wearing the new straw picture hat she had bought after her lunch with Milicia. It was hand-painted with lavender flowers and had a huge bow at the back. The salesgirl had admired her in it. “Not everyone has the height to carry a hat like that,” she said. Camille had been so angry at Milicia, she had no idea what she looked like. The hat soothed her because it was a cover, big enough to hide her face. She could run away inside of it and not come out until she wanted to.
Now she tipped the hat down low over her face as she whispered to the puppy. After a brief consultation, she spoke from under the straw. “Puppy says the sign was never classy.”
Bouck threw his head back and laughed like a pirate. He was wearing jeans and Gucci loafers, a lightweight navy Ferragamo blazer over a black T-shirt. Camille thought of him as a pirate. A big man with a round cherub’s face, small pink lips, pale blue eyes, and soft hair that hung down his neck and caught on his jacket collar. She didn’t know how he captured the money. But she knew he was powerful, made things happen. Kept her safe from her sister, who would kill her if she got the chance. She pushed away Milicia’s evil force by hugging Puppy tightly.
At a few minutes after ten on Sunday morning Second Avenue was deserted. Only a few cars and dog walkers cruised the streets. Saturday’s storm had left three feet of water in the subway and a water-main break on Broadway and Ninety-second Street. There were parts of the city where thousands of rats, forced out of the ground by high water, scurried among black plastic garbage bags, foraging for food. Puppy saw one and struggled to get out of Camille’s arms.
Smiling, she murmured, “Oh, all right,” and put the dog down. Puppy took off after the rat, only to be stopped short after a few feet by its retractable leash. The rat disappeared into the wet garbage that clogged the drain over the sewer on the corner.
Once the water had abated on Second Avenue, the devastation seemed to be limited to an assault of sodden newspapers and cardboard boxes that had been left out for a recycling pickup on Saturday that never occurred. Wet paper and loose garbage had blown all over the street.
“Let’s get out of here.” Bouck led the way across the street and halfway up the block to Third Avenue, where the garage was. He had called for the car, and it was waiting for them—a dark green Mercedes large enough to carry home most of the things they liked to buy.
Many antiques dealers were compulsive buyers, collecting at a much faster rate than they sold, and Bouck was no exception. He went to shows and auctions up and down the East Coast, with Camille beside him in the Mercedes. When she was really bad, he let her hide in the basement and didn’t stay away longer than twelve hours. Today they had a handle on things, were celebrating a new phase.
Camille settled herself into the caramel-colored leather and watched Bouck burn up the Merritt Parkway all the way to Connecticut. Two or three times she felt a tremor of panic, but when she retreated into the hat, she could see Puppy curled up on her lap. As long as Puppy was there, its tiny teeth showing in a smile, the red cloud wouldn’t close in over her. She knew from past experience if nothing bad happened, she would have a few good days.
Today was dazzling. The sky was deep blue, the trees and foliage that lined the highway after Greenwich thick and green. They were headed for the Fairfield Antiques Fair, which was held at a farm that was now a flea market and auction site. The traffic was light and by noon they had already parked and were beginning their meticulous study of the thousands of items offered in seventy-five small booths under three large tents in an open field.
They made a striking couple as they strolled casually from booth to booth—Camille in her straw hat and printed dress, a long and slender beauty stroking the tiny poodle in her arms, and Bouck, large and affluent with his diamond-studded gold Rolex, Gucci loafers, and benign baby face. Not visible was the small automatic tucked in his waistband, or the fairly crude Saturday night special in the small handbag that he never put down.
They appeared casual, but their search for treasure was an intense and careful process. They knew exactly what they were looking for, knew which dealers they would approach and which they would not. Bouck specialized in chandeliers, but he occasionally bought candlesticks, art glass, porcelain, unusual objets d’art, small chairs and tables, mirrors, sconces.
Camille shuddered. “Not there.” She turned away from the next booth. “That woman’s a witch. She wants to steal Puppy. Get away.” She made a brushing gesture.
“Sure thing.” Bouck steered Camille toward the barn, careful not to touch her as he moved her toward the indoor booths, where chandeliers hung from rafters.
The barn had been converted years before. Now its roof was studded with skylights. Today, the sun piercing through the grime on the windows and clouded crystals of the chandeliers gave everything a radiant, almost magical cast. Light, in tiny, dancing pinpoints, reflected everywhere.
Bouck and Camille continued their easy pace, pausing here and there to admire a piece and to chat with dealers they knew. The business had its own special language and its own insider information.
“You see the Empire piece in that corner?” Bouck nodded toward the back of one of the booths as they strolled past.
“Yes, very good,” Camille confirmed. “He also has the best pier mirror I’ve ever seen. Look at the size of it.”
Bouck glanced at the booth again quickly and then away so the owner wouldn’t think they were interested. He shook his head. “I thought we agreed. Nothing too big for the Mercedes.”
“Perfect for the living room. Perfect for our chandelier. Perfect for me,” she said in a little-girl voice. “I bet you can get them both for seven.”
“Oh, do you think so. We’ll see about that.”