“I was just generally worried that something was wrong.”
“So she opened the door with her passkey. It was locked?”
“Double-locked. The spring lock and the deadbolt.”
“And all the windows shut. Well, that’s pretty clear cut, you ask me. He got any family ought to be notified?”
“His parents were dead. If he had anybody else, he never mentioned it.”
“Lonely people dyin’ alone, it’d break your heart if you let it. Look how thin he is. The poor son of a bitch.”
In the living room he said, “You willing to make a formal identification? In the absence of next of kin, we ought to have somebody ID him.”
“He’s Eddie Dunphy.”
“Okay,” he said. “That’s good enough.”
Willa Rossiter was in 1-B. It was a rear apartment and had the same floor plan as Eddie’s, but it was on the east side of the building so everything was reversed. And someone had modernized the plumbing in her unit, and there was no tub in her kitchen. Instead she had a two-foot-square stall shower in the small water closet off the bedroom.
We sat in her kitchen at an old tin-topped table. She asked me if I’d like something to drink and I said I’d welcome a cup of coffee.
“All I’ve got is instant,” she said. “And it’s decaf at that. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a beer?”
“Instant decaf is fine.”
“I think I want something stronger myself. Look at me, how I’m shaking.” She held out a hand, palm toward the floor. If it was in fact trembling it didn’t show. She went to the cupboard over the sink and got out a fifth of Teacher’s and poured about two ounces into a Flintstones jelly glass. She sat down at the table with the bottle and the glass in front of her. She picked up the glass, looked at it, then drank off half the whiskey in a single swallow. She coughed, shuddered, heaved a sigh.
“That’s better,” she said.
I could believe it.
The kettle whistled and she fixed my coffee, if you could call it that. I stirred it and left the spoon sitting in the cup. It’s supposed to cool faster that way. I wonder if it really does.
She said, “I can’t even offer you milk.”
“I drink it black.”
“There’s sugar, though. I’m positive of that.”
“I don’t use any.”
“Because you don’t want to mask the true flavor of the instant decaf.”
“Something like that.”
She drank the rest of her scotch. She said, “You recognized the smell right away. That’s how you knew what you would find.”
“It’s not a smell you forget.”
“I don’t expect to forget it. I suppose you walked into a lot of apartments like that when you were a cop.”
“If you mean apartments with dead bodies in them, yes, I’m afraid I did.”
“I guess you get used to it.”
“I don’t know if you ever get used to it. You generally learn to mask your feelings, from others and from yourself.”
“That’s interesting. How do you do that?”
“Well, drinking helps.”
“Are you sure you won’t—”
“No, I’m positive. How else do you stop yourself from feeling anything? Some cops get angry at the deceased, or express contempt for him. When they bring the body downstairs, more often than not they drag the bag so the body bounces down the steps. You don’t want to see that when the guy in the body bag was a friend of yours, but for the cops or the morgue crew, it’s a way to dehumanize the corpse. If you treat him like garbage, you won’t agonize as much over what happened to him, or have to look at the fact that it could happen to you someday.”
“God,” she said. She added whiskey to her glass. It showed Fred Flintstone with a goofy grin on his face. She capped the bottle, took a drink.
“How long since you were a cop, Matt?”
“A few years.”
“What do you do now? You’re too young to be retired.”
“I’m a sort of private detective.”
“Sort of?”
“I don’t have a license. Or an office, or a listing in the Yellow Pages. Or much of a business, as far as that goes, but people turn up from time to time wanting me to handle something for them.”
“And you handle it.”
“If I can. Right now I’m working for a man from Indiana whose daughter came to New York to be an actress. She lived in a rooming house a few blocks from here, and a couple of months ago she disappeared.”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s what I’m supposed to be trying to find out. I don’t know a hell of a lot more than I did when I started.”
“Is that why you wanted to see Eddie Dunphy? Was he involved with her?”
“No, there was no connection.”
“Well, there goes my theory. I had a flash just now that he’d gotten her to pose for one of those magazines, and the next thing you knew she was in a snuff film, and you can take it from there. Do they really exist?”
“Snuff films? Probably, from what I hear. The only ones I ever came into contact with were pretty obvious fakes.”
“Would you watch a real one? If someone had a print and invited you to watch it.”
“Not unless I had a reason.”
“Curiosity wouldn’t be enough of a reason?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d have that much curiosity on the subject.”
“I wonder what I would do. Probably watch it and then wish I hadn’t. Or not and wish I had. What’s her name?”
“The girl who disappeared? Paula Hoeldtke.”
“And there was no connection between her and Eddie Dunphy?” I said there wasn’t. “Then why did you want to see him?”
“We were friends.”
“Longtime friends?”
“Fairly recent.”
“What did the two of you do, go shopping for magazines together? I’m sorry, that’s a callous thing to say. The poor man’s dead. He was your friend and he’s dead. But the two of you seem like unlikely friends.”
“Cops and criminals sometimes have a lot in common.”
“Was he a criminal?”
“He used to be, in a small-time way. It was an easy thing to grow up into, raised in these streets. Of course this neighborhood used to be a lot rougher than it is now.”
“Now it’s getting gentrified. Yuppified.”
“It’s still got a ways to go. There are some hard people living on these blocks. The last time I saw Eddie he told me about a homicide he’d witnessed.”
She frowned, her face troubled. “Oh?”
“One man beat another to death with a baseball bat in a basement furnace room. It happened some years ago, but the man who swung the bat is still around. He owns a saloon a few blocks from here.”
She sipped her whiskey. She drank like a drinker, all right. And I don’t think it was her first of the day. I’d noticed something on her breath earlier, probably beer. Not that that meant she was a lush. When you stop drinking, you become unnaturally sensitive to the smell of the stuff on other people. She’d probably just had a beer with her lunch, the way most of the world does.
Still, she drank neat whiskey like an old hand. No wonder I liked her.
“More coffee, Matt?”
“No thanks.”
“You sure? It’s no trouble, the water’s still hot.”
“Not just yet.”
“It’s pretty lousy coffee, isn’t it?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. I haven’t got a whole lot of ego tied up in my coffee, not when it comes out of a jar. There was a time I used to buy beans and grind my own. You should have known me then.”
“I’ll settle for knowing you now.”