Matt blew a hot breath into the frosty air. “I doubt we’ll stay long enough to see the show. Bree’s kind of like a shark. She has to keep moving.”
“Moving where?”
He shrugged. “She typically gets to a party, orders one drink, circles the room, and by the time I’ve settled in, she’s snapping her fingers telling me it’s time to move on to the next event. I’m beginning to feel like a freaking nomad.”
“That’s rich, given your globe-trotting gene.”
“New York used to be my chance to stop moving for a little while.”
“Well, I appreciate your coming. You know I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t really need your help, and I promise I won’t get you arrested this time.”
“Actually, Clare, compared to the dulling sameness of Manhattan social gatherings, Dumpster diving with you was kind of fun.” He smiled. “So, what’s up?”
“No Dumpster diving. All we’re going to do is have a little talk with Alf’s former roommate, Karl Kovic. I’m going to persuade him that it’s in his best interest to hand Alf’s orphaned kitten over to me, rather than ship it off to the city pound.”
“We’re here to steal a kitten?”
“Yes.”
Matt groaned. “And you need me because...”
“You’re the persuasion. I also plan to quiz Kovic about a few things.”
“Like?”
“Like the particulars of his naughty extracurricular activities.” I updated Matt on Brother Dom’s revelations. “And as far as I’m concerned, this posh address is just another nail in Karl Kovic’s coffin. Ben Tower confirmed to me that Kovic was selling him celebrity photos.”
“Alf’s friend Karl is beginning to sound like the grifters I see in every major city on this planet.”
“Yeah, I know the type: Man of a Thousand Schemes.”
Matt’s smile was suddenly gone. “Guys like that can be pretty nasty, Clare.” He flexed his gloved fingers. “It’s a good thing you asked me to come along.”
“Well, Mike read me the riot act on watching my back. I’m trying to listen.”
“The flatfoot’s right. Anything else I should know about this guy?”
“He’s in some kind of relationship, probably sexual, with Alf’s wife, Shelly. If he denies it, I have proof.”
“Photos?”
I nodded. “Esther provided me with cell phone shots that would make a low-rent PI proud.”
Matt was smiling again. “I can see being your muscle is going to be a lot more fun than being Breanne’s arm candy.” Arching a dark eyebrow, he slipped into a Sean Connery brogue. “Though perhaps I should have brought my Beretta, Miss Moneypenny.”
“I’m sure the threat of your left hook will be enough.” I picked up Java’s carrier. “Come on...”
I led Matt up the avenue, then down a side street. A few minutes later I found the address. “This is it. The Wiseman Apartments.”
Matt tilted back his head to take in the six-story brick building. It appeared newly renovated with big windows, restored pediments, and freshly painted wrought-iron grilles.
He glanced back down at me. “Pretty nice digs for a Traveling Santa.”
“My thought exactly.”
The lobby of Wiseman Apartments had eggshell walls and inset tile floors in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern. Lucky for us, there was no doorman. A young woman leaving the place in an open coat and a holiday party dress sweetly held the door for us (really for Matt), and we slipped inside. There were rows of polished brass mailboxes with buttons under each to ring the tenant.
“K. Kovic, Five C,” Matt read. “Shall we buzz him?”
“He might not let us in if we ask, so let’s not give him the option.”
The solitary elevator seemed stuck on three, so we took the stairs and reached the fifth floor a few minutes later. The climb was a chore for me—but it seemed to invigorate Matt. (No doubt a conditioned effect from trekking all those steep trails on high-altitude coffee farms.)
“Let’s steal this cat!” he said, cracking his leather-gloved knuckles.
“Not stealing,” I reminded him as we stepped out of the stairwell. “Persuading.”
He moved up to the apartment door and knocked once. Instantly, the wood swung inward, giving way under his sharply rapping knuckles. He shot me a confused look.
“Hello! Mr. Kovic?” I called into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. “Karl Kovic?”
I thought I heard some scuffling in another room as I stepped over the threshold, found a light switch, and flipped it. Recessed bulbs illuminated the foyer and hallway. Matt followed me inside and closed the door.
“Hello?” I said again, louder this time.
I took a step forward—then yelped as a little white fur ball rocketed between my sneakers.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” Matt cooed.
The kitten scurried behind an umbrella stand, where it sat on its haunches and studied us, pink nose sniffing the air.
“I think she’s afraid of me,” Matt said after he tried to approach the skittish animal.
“You’d be scared, too, if a mountain draped in Armani came at you.”
I saw Matt tense and realized that he was now sniffing the air. “Smell that?”
“What?”
“Cordite.”
My brows knitted. “Cor—?”
“Gunpowder.”
“You mean—”
Matt shushed me. “Stay here. And don’t touch a thing.”
Matt crept down the short hall. I moved to catch up with him, entering the apartment’s living room.
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A dirty coffee cup sat beside an easy chair, old newspapers and magazines were piled on the floor, and a Santa costume in a dry-cleaning bag was draped over the end of the couch, next to a man’s overcoat.
Matt noticed me following him and scowled. Then he stepped around the littered coffee table and moved deeper into the apartment. I noticed that the white kitten had reappeared, following my ex’s polished black shoes like a tiny white shadow.
Must be female.
I paused at the coffee table, where I spied a slim canvas wallet, keys, and a pile of change. I slipped on my gloves and gingerly opened the wallet with one finger. Karl Kovic’s New York State driver’s license photo stared back at me through a cellophane window.
He and Alf could have been brothers. Karl’s eyes were muddier, more brown than green, but his face had the same round shape. Like Alf, Karl had a mustache, although his wasn’t a bushy walrus; it was trimmed in a horseshoe shape more closely to his face. He also wore his hair long, but not long enough to do Alf’s retro-sixties ponytail thing.
I heard Matt curse. “Son of a—”
“What’s the matter?”
He reappeared, his face a shade paler. “It’s Kovic. At least I think it’s Kovic. He’s in the bedroom, Clare. He’s dead.”
Twenty-Five
Matt grabbed me before I got past him. “You don’t want to see that.”
“I have to!”
I pulled away and moved into the bedroom. The smell was more pronounced here. Like sulfur or burned hair combined with the slightly metallic stench of fresh blood. Kovic lay on the floor beside the bed, facedown, head turned, eyes open. For a moment, my feet felt frozen to the floor.
“There was no sign of blood or a struggle in the foyer or living room,” I murmured. “The killer must have met Kovic at the front door, and then led him at gunpoint to this bedroom...”
The room was a shambles. Every drawer was pulled out, its contents spilled onto the floor. Even the mattress had been molested, the pillowcases stripped away, sheets and blankets tossed around.
“Obviously the shooter was looking for something. I wonder if he found it.”
Matt stepped up behind me. “Doesn’t matter. Not for this poor bastard.” He leaned over the body. “Looks like he was shot twice in the back. Those bullet holes are too small to be exit wounds.”
I remembered Quinn’s stories about working crime scenes and stopped Matt from touching the body to confirm what the exit wounds looked like in the corpse’s front. Instead, I bent low, trying to figure out something else. Staring at the dead man’s face, I noticed that Kovic’s wide-open eyes were moist. There was saliva on his chin. It hadn’t dried yet. The spittle was still wet.