On closer inspection, the officer looked just like any Italian-American cop, with the working-class Queens accent to boot. Cutforth settled the cop on the living room sofa and took a chair opposite. The guy had Southampton on his patch, which confirmed what Cutforth already suspected. This was about Grove. He had caller ID; he should never have answered that crazy son of a bitch’s phone call.
The cop took out a notebook and pen, displayed a microcassette recorder.
“No taping,” said Cutforth.
The cop shrugged, returned it to his pocket. “Funny smell in here.”
“Ventilation problems.”
The cop turned the pages of his notebook, got himself all positioned and ready to go. Cutforth settled back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Okay, Officer Dee-Agusta, what can I do for you?”
“Did you know Jeremy Grove?”
“No.”
“He called you very early on the morning of October 16.”
“Did he?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
Cutforth uncrossed his arms, crossed and recrossed his legs, already regretting having let the cop up. The only redeeming thing was, the cop didn’t look too bright.
“The answer’s yes, he did call me.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Do I have to answer these questions?”
“No—at least not at this moment. If you wish, we could arrange something more formal.”
Cutforth didn’t like the sound of that. He thought quickly. “There’s nothing to hide. I have a collection of musical instruments, rock memorabilia, that sort of thing. He was interested in buying something.”
“What?”
“Just a letter.”
“Show it to me.”
Cutforth managed to suppress any look of surprise. He stood up. “Follow me.”
They went back into the control room. Cutforth cast his eyes around. “That.”
The cop went over, looked, frowning.
“A letter Janis Joplin wrote to Jim Morrison, but never mailed. Just two lines. Called him the worst lay of her life.” Cutforth mustered a chuckle.
The cop took out his notebook and began copying the letter. Cutforth rolled his eyes.
“And the price?”
“I told him it wasn’t for sale.”
“Did he give a reason why he was interested?”
“He just said he collected Doors paraphernalia. That’s all.”
“And you didn’t mind getting a call in the wee hours of the morning?”
“In the music business, we keep late hours.” Cutforth walked toward the control room door, held it open, giving the cop a big hint about leaving. But the man didn’t budge. Instead, he seemed to be sniffing the air again.
“That smell, it’s really peculiar.”
“I’m about to call maintenance.”
“There was exactly this smell at the site of Jeremy Grove’s homicide.”
Cutforth swallowed. What was it Grove had said? The smell is the worst part of it. I can hardly think straight. In his call, Grove said he’d found something—a lump of fur-covered meat the size of a golf ball. It had seemed to be alive . . . at least until Grove stomped on it and flushed it down the toilet. Cutforth felt his heart pounding in his rib cage, and he took a couple of breaths, let them out slowly, the way he’d been taught in those anxiety management classes. This was ridiculous. This was the twenty-first fucking century. Cool it, Nigel.
“Do you know a Locke Bullard, Mr. Cutforth? Or one Ranier Beckmann?”
These questions, coming on the heels of each other, almost physically staggered Cutforth. He shook his head, hoping his expression wasn’t betraying him.
“You been in touch with Beckmann?” he pressed.
“No.” Hell, he never should have let the cop in here.
“What about Bullard? You been in touch with him? You know, just a friendly chat about old times?”
“No. I don’t know the man. I don’t know either one of them.”
The cop made a long notation in his notebook. Cutforth wondered what it was that took so long to write down. He felt the sweat trickling down his sides. He swallowed, but there was nothing to swallow. His mouth was dry.
“Sure you don’t want to tell me more about that telephone call? Because everybody else who spoke to him that night said Grove was upset. Terribly upset. Not exactly in the mood to buy rock memorabilia.”
“I already told you everything.”
Now at last they returned to the living room. Cutforth didn’t sit down or offer a seat to the cop. He just wanted him out.
“Do you always keep the apartment this hot, Mr. Cutforth?”
It was hot, Cutforth noticed; hot even for him. He didn’t answer.
“It was also excessively warm at the site of the Grove homicide, despite the fact that the heat was off in the house.” The cop looked at him inquiringly, but still Cutforth said nothing.
The cop grunted, slapped shut his notebook, returned the pen to its leather loop. “If I were you, Mr. Cutforth, next time I’d decline to answer a police officer’s questions without a lawyer present.”