“First, I called Oglethorpe University in Atlanta,” Ortega said. “They never heard of a professor named Adrian Murdock. Not in the history department. Not in any department. I described the man you spoke to: gray hair, gray mustache, thin. That fits a lot of professors. Oglethorpe agreed to email faculty photographs for you to look at.”
“The man I saw won’t match any of them,” Balenger said.
“You know how this works — keep asking questions, keep getting information, even if it eliminates a possibility. I contacted the city clerk’s office. Up until 1983, that property was indeed owned by someone named Victor Evans. I checked with the phone company and got the numbers for all the people with that name in the New York City area. One of them turned out to be the man who owned the building back then. But he doesn’t know a Philip Evans, and he never had a son.”
Balenger looked dismally at the cardboard cup of tepid coffee in his hand.
Ortega checked his notepad. “Yesterday afternoon, my partner and I spoke to people who live on that block of Nineteenth Street. They say a truck arrived Saturday morning and unloaded the chairs and tables. Late in the afternoon, the truck came back to take the furniture away.”
“That’s when Amanda and I were removed from the building,” Balenger said.
“Probably. If a date-rape drug was used, no one would have needed to carry you. You’d have been marginally conscious and able to walk. True, you’d have been unsteady. But the truck would have blocked the view from the opposite side of the street, and the tables and chairs being carried out would have distracted anybody watching from the buildings on either side. You and your friend would have seemed just a couple of people being helped into a car.”
“More likely a van. Something without windows.” Balenger’s hands felt cold. “A lot of people were involved. The woman who called herself Karen Bailey.”
Ortega read a description from the notebook. “Matronly. Fortyish. No makeup. Brown hair pulled back in a bun. Plain navy dress.”
Balenger nodded. “Plus, the people who showed up for the lecture.”
“You said several of them walked out during the presentation?”
“Yes.” Balenger concentrated, remembering. “A lot of people,” he emphasized, “too many to keep a secret. Maybe the audience didn’t understand what was really happening. Maybe they were paid to stay only for a limited time. The delivery people. All they needed to be told was a man and woman felt ill and were being helped into a van. It’s possible only the professor and Karen Bailey actually knew what was going on.”
“The delivery people.” Ortega indicated a list on his, desk. “My partner and I are contacting all the companies in the city that rent tables and chairs for events. We’ll eventually find the company that delivered to that address. Maybe they can give us a description of whoever hired them.”
“Any bets they were hired over the phone and paid with a check in the mail?” Balenger asked.
Ortega studied him with concern.
“And any bets the bank account was established for the sole purpose of paying the Realtor and the rental company and maybe some of the people who showed up for the lecture?” Balenger added. “That bank account won’t be used again, and whoever established it no doubt gave a false name, address, and social security number.”
“You know,” Ortega said, “this is something new for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had a case in which someone with law-enforcement experience reported a loved one missing. I feel like I’m a magician trying to work with another magician. You’re familiar with the procedures. You realize what goes on behind the curtain. While I was making inquiries with Oglethorpe University, the city clerk’s office, and the residents of that block on Nineteenth Street, I heard about someone else who made the same inquiries. That wouldn’t have been you by any chance?”
“I couldn’t bear just sitting and waiting.”
“I hope you didn’t imply to those people that you’re still in law enforcement.”
“I did nothing illegal.”
“Then the best thing you can do right now is make yourself sit and wait a little longer. You’re too emotionally involved to go around questioning people. Don’t try to do my job.”
“The thing is,” Balenger said, “I realize how hard this is for you. You and your partner have plenty of cases, and there’s only so much time in a day, and speaking of magicians, you and I know magic doesn’t exist.”
“Okay, show me how to do my job. If you were me, where would you look to find the people who attended the lecture?”
“I was about to suggest they played their parts with such assurance, maybe that’s what they do for a living. Maybe they’re actors,” Balenger said.
10
“There’s the son of a bitch.” Balenger gestured toward a photograph in a glassed display. “Minus the mustache and with darker hair.”
He and Ortega stood outside the Bleecker Street Playhouse in Greenwich Village. They’d spent the previous hour phoning talent agencies and actors’ groups, asking about anyone hired for a Saturday afternoon gig on East 19th Street.
Leaving the noise of traffic, they entered a small, dingy lobby, where they paused to assess their surroundings. The box office was behind them. On the left, Balenger saw a coat closet, on the right a counter for refreshments. The stained carpet looked worn, although not much of it was visible because of folded tarpaulins, stacked scaffolding, paint cans, buckets, and brushes. The smell of turpentine hung in the air.
“Definitely needs an overhaul,” Ortega murmured, glancing toward a water stain on the ceiling.
“I hate old buildings,” Balenger said.
Straight ahead, past a double door, muffled voices spoke unintelligible words.
Ortega opened one of the doors and went inside. After a moment, he came back and motioned for Balenger to follow him. The door swung shut behind them. They stood in an aisle that descended past rows of seats toward a bottom area illuminated by overhead lights. On stage, the curtains were parted. Two couples, one middle-aged, the other young, held scripts and recited lines. A tall, thin man stood before the stage, motioning with a pointer to let them know where to stand.
Looking small down there, the young woman glanced toward the back. “They’re here,” she said, her voice echoing.
The tall, thin man turned toward Balenger and Ortega. “Please, come down and join us.”
Concealing his agitation, Balenger was conscious of the sound of his footsteps in the deserted aisle. The theater exuded a sense of gloom, the old seats unnaturally empty, desperate to be filled with applause.
Ortega introduced himself and showed his badge. “I believe you’re already familiar with Mr. Balenger.”
Balenger recognized them. The tall, thin man was Professor Murdock. The four people on the stage had been at the Saturday lecture.
“I certainly remember you,” the man with the pointer said, “and the young woman you were with. Her name was…” He glanced up, searching his memory. “Amanda Evert.”
“And your name was Adrian Murdock, except I’m sure it isn’t.”
“Roland Perry. The professor’s name was assigned to me.”
“Is something wrong?” the young man on the stage asked.
Ortega addressed Perry. “On the phone, you said your group was hired to be at that house on East Nineteenth Street.”
“That’s right. The event was described as performance art.” Perry’s voice sounded vaguely British. “I was given a speech to deliver. Our playhouse actors received directions about how to behave, plus a description of Mister Balenger and his friend. We were told this would be a practical joke of sorts. Throughout my lecture, the audience would gradually leave. Then I’d stop talking. As the visual demonstration continued, I’d step into the shadows and leave the building. After that, the images would stop, and Mister Balenger and his friend would find themselves alone in the room.”