Tracy Kilbourne had owned more clothes than all of Bloom’s three sisters put together.
A mink coat hung on a padded hanger.
A piece of Louis Vuitton luggage still carried a baggage tag for Delta’s Flight 91 from Tampa to LAX.
“There’s that American Express item,” Rawles said.
“Yeah,” Bloom said.
“Pardon?” Tabitha said.
A silk peignoir was hanging on a hook behind the bathroom door.
Bottles with colored liquids in them lined the tiled wall behind the sunken bathtub. Bloom had seen such an Arabian Nights lineup of perfumes and oils only once — when he was looking for a bookie in a massage parlor in Hempstead, Long Island.
“She lived well,” Tabitha said dryly.
“Who do you suppose paid for all this stuff?” Bloom asked.
“I assumed she herself...”
“Ever see a boyfriend coming around?” Rawles asked.
“It’s not our policy at Seascape to monitor the comings and goings of our residents,” Tabitha said, and looked him squarely in the eye.
“You want to have dinner with me tonight?” Rawles asked.
“Pardon?” Tabitha said.
“You want to have—”
“No,” she said.
The first thing they did when they got back to the office was call the telephone company.
Bloom spoke to a supervisor named Marcia Gristede. He told her what he was after. He gave her the address of Tracy Kilbourne’s condo at Seascape, and read off the number they’d taken from the phone in her bedroom. Marcia Gristede checked her records.
“Yes, sir, I have that listing,” she said.
“To whom is the phone listed?” Bloom asked.
“To Arch Realty Corporation in Stamford, Connecticut,” Marcia Gristede said.
“They get the bills each month?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When’s the last bill they paid?”
“We bill this number on the seventeenth, sir. The last bill was paid six days ago.”
Bloom looked at his desk calendar. “That would’ve been April twenty-fifth,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Always pay promptly, do they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Arch Realty Corporation in Stamford, Connecticut, right?”
“Yes, sir. That’s where we send the bills, sir.”
“And the telephone is listed under that name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have an address for them?” Bloom asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I have it, please?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said, and read off the address to him. The address was the same as the one on the registration for the Benz. As Bloom wrote it down, he wondered if Marcia Gristede knew that a chain of grocery stores in New York had been named after her.
“Miss Gristede,” he said, “do you know who signs these checks from Arch Realty?”
“I have no idea in the world,” she said.
While Bloom was on the phone with Marcia Gristede, I was on the phone with Sarah Whittaker. She had called me in what appeared to be a state of great agitation, telling me at once that Dr. Pearson was attempting to sabotage her one chance at “freedom” — as she called it — by insisting that Brunhilde accompany us to Southern Medical.
“What’s wrong with Brunhilde?” I asked.
“What’s wrong with her?” Sarah said, her voice rising. “I thought I made it clear that I detest her.”
“It’s only an hour or so to Southern Medical,” I said. “The moment we—”
“An eternity,” Sarah said. “Matthew, I’m going to be examined and observed by a team of doctors who’ve never met me before, and I don’t want to arrive there all upset because the Bitch of Belsen was in the car with me.”
“This is just a matter of form,” I said. “Knott’s can’t allow you to leave the hospital unattend—”
“That’s not what I’m complaining about,” Sarah said. “I know they need somebody with a straitjacket handy. I’m not objecting to an attendant. I’m objecting to Brunhilde being that attendant.”
“Well... whom would you prefer?” I asked.
“Jake,” she said.
“I never got the impression you were overly fond of Jake.”
“Jake doesn’t watch me while I sit on the toilet,” Sarah said.
“Well, if you’d prefer Jake, I’m sure Dr. Pearson—”
“He’s already said no.”
“Why?”
“Because today is Jake’s day off.”
“Well... is there anyone else you’d feel comfortable—”
“I just don’t want any of these damn women sitting in that car with me, looking down their noses and affecting an oh-so-superior air. This is very important to me, Matthew, I thought you understood how important this—”
“I do indeed. But I can’t see—”
“Will you talk to Cyclops, please? If I can’t get Jake, any of the other male attendants will do. I want to look pretty and fresh and rested when I get to Southern Medical, and I—”
“I’m sure you’ll look beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you, but not if Brunhilde or Ilse or any of the other bitches are watching me like vultures all the way there.”
“I’ll talk to Pearson,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I love you, Matthew,” she said, and hung up.
The person Bloom spoke to at Calusa National was a woman named Adele Halliday. He told her he was investigating a homicide and had learned that the Seascape Corporation banked with them. What he was—
“Yes?” Miss Halliday said cautiously, and Bloom hoped he was not in for another session like the one he’d had with Mrs. O’Hare at First Calusa City.
“What I’m looking for,” he said, “I understand a check was deposited to the account there a few weeks ago... a check from Arch Realty in Stamford, Connecticut...”
“Yes?”
Again the cautious tone. Homicide investigations made people very cautious.
“It would have been made out to the Seascape Corporation... for quarterly maintenance fees in the amount—”
“What is it you wish, exactly?” Miss Halliday asked.
“I want to know who signed that check,” Bloom said.
“Well...”
“This is of enormous importance to me, Miss Halliday,” Bloom said. “A young girl has been murdered. I can apply for a court order to gain access to—”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Miss Halliday said. “Can you hold a moment, please?”
Bloom waited.
When she came back on the line, she said, “Arch Realty?”
“Yes, ma’am. In Stamford, Connecticut.”
“I have a check dated April thirteenth, drawn to Seascape Corporation in the amount of one thousand eight hundred thirteen dollars and twelve cents.”
“That would be it,” Bloom said. “Can you tell me who signed it?”
“It’s signed by... the signature is a little difficult to read... but I believe it’s Andrew Nelson Hennings... or Hennessy... I’m sorry, it’s really a scrawl.”
“Thank you very much,” Bloom said.
Dr. Silas Pearson was not happy to hear from me.
He said he was having a great deal of difficulty with Sarah.
He said her objection to Christine Seifert as a suitable and appropriate escort to Southern Medical was only another manifestation of Sarah’s delusion that everyone was involved in a huge conspiracy to deprive her of her liberty.
“Well, surely,” I said, “if it’s of such importance to her—”