“What’s going on anyway?” Tigger asked. “All the dates are like seven or eight years ago. Is the outfit that made those videos still in business?”
I shook my head. If the stories I’d heard were true, the head of the modeling agency had been arrested shortly after Owl left the country and the whole operation shut down.
“I think we’re looking at a different sort of business now,” I said. “I think someone’s using this info to contact former customers. Maybe asking them how much they value their wives, their bosses, their parishioners never finding out what sort of videos they like looking at.”
“Someone,” Tigger said.
“Sayre,” I said.
“Well, I’m no fan of blackmail normally, but if your girl’s out there blackmailing pedophiles, making their lives hell, she’s aces in my book.” Her voice dropped. “But I don’t know, Payton. I don’t much like this. I just hope you’re on the right side of it.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Listen, Tig. I’m sorry about—”
“—the mess? I made it.” She prodded some of the fragments that had once been an iPod. “But do you see now why I’m moving out of New York? I don’t want my daughter growing up in the middle of…all this.”
There are bad men in the suburbs, too, I almost said. But didn’t. Why piss in her bouillabaisse?
I thanked her, apologized again, told her I’d call her later. But I wouldn’t, not unless she called first. I’d brought kiddie porn into her home—unintentionally, but I done it. I’d tainted her sacred trinity of computers with it. A stain, worse than any physical one I could’ve left. She would have found it easier to forgive me puking on her rug.
It felt like my bridges were burning, behind me as well as in front. But more important to me than making sure I landed on the right side when the smoke cleared, was not getting stuck anywhere in the middle with flames rising at either end.
I scooped up the bits of smashed iPod onto the stack of printed pages. I felt like that hapless rube left holding the bag at the end of the magic trick involving the handkerchief, the pocket watch, and the mallet. May I have a volunteer from the audience? Now, sir, we’ve never met before…
I walked away, leaving Tigger in front of her computers. The screensaver reappeared on the monitors, but the little train would have to roll over a lot of track before that other image was completely erased.
I went back down to my office.
No more Googling for answers. I was sick of what the Internet had to offer. I was going to get my information the old-fashioned way.
Earn it.
Chapter Fourteen: RESULTS MAY VARY
It was four o’clock. I called Paul Windmann to tell him that I was coming to return his stolen iPod. He said it wasn’t a good time, that he’d come to my office later and get it.
I said I’d see him in ten minutes and hung up.
I put his four orange 50 Euro notes in my pocket in case he wanted a refund. And I took my gun, if the money wasn’t enough.
Outside my building, the blond kid, FL!P, was loitering, seated on the brass-covered Siamese standpipe. He was holding his skateboard with two hands, scraping one edge against the concrete. Engrossed in what he was doing, he didn’t see me until I was flagging down a cab. He ran over shouting, “Hey, dude, wait. I got something to give you.”
He reached into a pocket of his baggy pants and tugged out a square cream-colored envelope and handed it to me.
The envelope was blank except for the embossed return address: The Peer Group, on West 21st Street in Chelsea. Peer. I remembered the call I’d answered in Owl’s hotel room, the message that Michael Cassidy should call the pier office. Not pier, Peer.
The P.R. firm Tigger had mentioned, run by the un-French Coy d’Loy. West 21st Street in Chelsea. It was the same block as on those sales handbills I’d found in Owl’s pocket.
The envelope’s flap was unsealed. Inside was an invitation to a film festival screening that evening and the afterparty being held at The Wiggle Room on Rivington.
I folded it into my pocket.
“You’ll go, right?” he asked. “I’m supposed to find out.”
“Find out for whom? Your sugar mama?”
“Look, you goin’ or not? It’ll be worth it to you.”
A cab pulled to the curb. I got in, but before I shut the door, I asked the kid, “You sic those three heavies on me? The Russians looking for Michael Cassidy?”
“You know where she is?” he asked eagerly, his eyes lighting up.
I slammed the door and gave the driver the address for the Crystalview, leaving the kid standing there.
I leaned back, reread the invitation. It was for a screening of Reneg, the new film by Ethan Ore.
The Peer Group. Chelsea. Michael Cassidy’s ex-husband.
Yeh, I’d be going to the movies tonight.
The cabbie let me off right in front of Windmann’s building, just below the Holland Tunnel entrance, on Washington Street between Vestry and Debrosses. I’d never seen it before, but I’d read about its construction. One of the luxury condo high-rises that had gone up in recent years on a newly redeveloped waterfront, an area so beautiful it made you think you’d stumbled upon a completely different city.
The Crystalview had been open for business for over a year, but a postman friend of mine told me that so far they only had a twenty percent occupancy, or what only amounted to four full floors of the twenty-story stovepipe-shaped monstrosity.
Security cameras in the lobby, but no doorman and no one behind the obsidian-topped maplewood front desk. If eighty percent of their units were empty, they probably didn’t have enough to cover the expense of a full staff yet.
To let people in, there was a fancy, high-tech house-phone system by the front door, with a keypad and a directory showing apartment numbers with spaces beside them for names, most of which were blank. I found Windmann’s name and entered the corresponding number on the pad. No answer. I tried again, but still no response. I guessed he didn’t want to see me. Well, too bad, I was going to see him.
I entered the numbers of a few other units with names showing, but no one else answered me either. Maybe the place was a Marie Celeste.
An elevator door opened and a Chinese deliveryman stepped into the lobby. He left a stack of menus at the front desk, then held the door open for me on his way out.
I considered taking the stairs up to Windmann’s, but his apartment was on the nineteenth floor. I’d never make it. I hadn’t eaten anything since Wednesday dinner. I’d been operating solely on stored fats and the buzz of the hunt.
My lonely elevator ride up to nineteen was uninterrupted. I felt the oppression of all those empty units around me as I rose by and above them. Unhaunted spaces. It gave me the willies, that vacancy, that vacuum, like a potent sample of the nothingness that may attend us all after death. Then my ears popped and I yawned some to clear them. I hated elevators.
Ding. At the nineteenth floor, I walked down the hall past five closed doors until I got to Windmann’s and stopped.
His door was ajar.
As a kid, I never got that pun, the door is a jar, whenever I came across it in one of the jokes-and-riddles books I used to pore over, trying to figure out the answers. At first I didn’t understand it, but even once I did “get it,” I never thought it very funny.
I didn’t think so now either.
I’d been encountering too many partially open doors today. Normally in New York City that didn’t happen so often, especially not with a pneumatic-hinged door like this, which should’ve closed silently of its own weight.