“His death,” I said. “It wasn’t a random murder. That lead, about the light-skinned guy with the bloody shirt, seen leaving his apartment-I think that was basically bullshit, a plant of some kind.”
Lyla leaned in and said, “Tell me about it.”
“The information I got was that the murderer was let up into Henry’s apartment, by the security guard who was on duty that night.”
“Who gave you the information?” forart
“The security guard.”
“Then you should be talking to him.”
I shook my head. “He’s gone. He’s been gone, since he left the message and admitted that he was bought. I finally got hold of his mother-she says he left home a few days ago and hasn’t been back since.” I winced inadvertently at the memory of her broken voice as she said it, knowing full well that he’d never be back.
Lyla settled in her chair. “So that brings it back to us. How can I help you?”
“What was Henry working on here when he died?”
“Nothing,” she said. “The funny thing is, he had just filed his last story, a week before his death. That week, he took a few days off, though he was in and out of the office, every day. But the cops asked Jack about all that. They took all his notes, and his diskettes.”
“The cops?”
“The two investigators that were assigned his case.”
“They talk to you?”
Lyla nodded. “I didn’t have anything to tell ’em professionally. As for their personal questions, I just didn’t answer. I had the impression they weren’t going to follow up on the murder anyway.”
Lyla watched me think things over. When I looked up, she was looking into my eyes, and her mouth was open, just a little. I felt something happen between us then, but I moved on.
“It’s possible Henry was working on something you didn’t know about, isn’t it?”
“Sure. He played his cards close to the vest, when he wasn’t on a specific assignment.”
“He keep backup diskettes on his notes?”
Lyla said, “Yep.”
I said, “You give those to the cops too?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Any chance you’d print out those disks for me?”
“A real good chance,” she said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
Lyla rang Rolanda and had her retrieve Henry’s diskettes from the file room. Rolanda entered with a container, and Lyla instructed her to use the laser to print out the last two months’ worth of work. Rolanda, who seemed a bit overworked, sighed a bit during the instructions. When she left, Lyla said, “It’ll be a few minutes.”
I nodded to the photograph on the wall. “That’s you, right?”
“Yeah. My parents were beatniks, and then they were hippies. They were a little old for it, even then. But for them it wasn’t a fad. I was raised to believe that if you had tt iento go against the grain and suffer a little bit to change things, it was worth it, if it made a difference. Even a small difference.”
“You’re doing it.”
“I’m trying.”
I said, “How close were you with Henry?”
Lyla’s pale eyes widened a bit. Off guard, but only for a second. “You mean,” she said, “was I sleeping with him?”
“Approximately.”
“Well, it’s none of your business, Stefanos. But just to get things on the table-no, I wasn’t.” She smiled, but not at me. She was thinking about Henry. “But hell, I would have, in a heartbeat. And it’s not as if I didn’t try. Once, when I got him drunk, I even asked him.”
“He was gay.”
“Sure, he was. But he didn’t wear it on his sleeve. It was only one part of what he was. And since he didn’t talk about it much, I mean, I didn’t know if he was… exclusive about his gayness or not. Straight people are pretty naive about that kind of shit, aren’t they? Anyway, I liked him, and at the very least, I thought it was worth a shot.”
“The cops thought his murder might have been a crime of passion, at first. You know any of his lovers?”
Lyla shook her head. “Not personally. I did meet this guy once, a bartender, when William and I were drinking at the Occidental, in the Willard. The bartender’s name was Michael-a gorgeous guy, but stiff. I didn’t like him. William was a bit in the bag that night, and he told me that the two of them had dated.”
“Anything worth checking out?”
“I would say no. But I don’t know how your business works. How you get your information, how things shake out.”
I shrugged. “I talk to a lot of people and things happen.”
Lyla looked at my bandaged hand and then up at the deep purple crescent on my jaw. “They certainly do.”
“Not as often as you’d think.”
“You a drinker, Stefanos?”
“Now it’s your turn to get personal.”
“You look like a drinker.”
“I know what it tastes like.”
“No need to be defensive,” she said. “I like a man who can take a drink.”
After that we sat without speaking. Her homemade tape was playing Richard Thompson’s Gypsy Love Songs. The time went by like that, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. I liked her looks, and her honesty, and her intelligence. I liked everything about her.
Rolanda entered the office with a manila folder filled with papelleencers. I took the folder and thanked her, and stood to put on my overcoat. Lyla McCubbin wrote a phone number on the back of her business card and pushed it across the desk. I slipped the card into the cellophane cover of my cigarette pack. She took my card and placed it in the front compartment of her desk drawer. Then she stood and shook my hand.
“I hope this helps.”
“I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks.”
Lyla leaned on one foot. She let her other foot out of her olive green pump and ran her stockinged toe around the shoe’s instep. Then she crossed her arms and twisted her lovely mouth up into a lopsided smirk. “Call me. Okay, Stefanos?”
I said, “I will.”
TWENTY-THREE
I walked east on Pennsylvania Avenue. The temperature had fallen with evening, but I was warm with the buzz of new energy against the night. At the National, older couples were exiting cabs, dressed and eager for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest scam on the theatergoing public. In Freedom Plaza tourists walked hurriedly past a man playing flute. The man stood coatless in front of an empty wax cup.
At Fourteenth and Penn I entered the leaded glass doors of the Occidental Restaurant in the Willard Hotel. I walked through a long hall, past black-and-white portrait photographs-Pat Schroeder and Carole Thompson on my right, George Bush and Harry Truman on my left-and down a flight of stairs into the bar area of the restaurant. Cole Porter played as I descended the stairs. I felt like Fred Astaire, with a two-day beard covering a bruised face.
I took off my black overcoat and hung it on a rack, transferred my smokes to the inside pocket of my Robert Hall sport coat, and had a seat at the bar. The seat I took was next to a black-haired Jewess who was picking at an appetizer plate of peppered scallops and squid on a bed of romaine lettuce. She held her fork as if it were hot. Next to her sat another young woman with large, expensive jewelry and a tiny nose that cost more than the jewelry. They were probably grabbing a bite to eat before heading a few blocks uptown to the Spy Club, where rich boys would buy them drinks from the proceeds of their trust funds. I gave the Occidental a look.
The room was all dark wood and candles, deuces primarily, young affluent couples with pale skin who looked pleasant in the light. In the bar area, three businessmen were hitting on a rather plain-looking woman who was wearing a dress that appeared to be decorated with a doily. On the far side of the bar, a distinguished elderly couple sipped their martinis and stared straight ahead. At the service bar, the manager fingered his Brooks Brothers tie with one hand and his brush mustache with the other. I signaled for the bartender.
The bartender walked over and stood square. He buffed the spot in front me with a clean white cloth, though the spot was already dry. His name tag said MICHAEL, my first bingo in a very long while.