Until the waiter had finished delivering the food, Salanter talked idly, about the history of the Parterre Club, his own interest in growing ornamental plants—“a good hobby for a desk-bound man. You can groom them while you’re waiting for the markets to open in Tokyo or London”—and about the Segall paintings I’d admired. His English was impeccable, but the remains of an Eastern European accent floated underneath it.
“My grandfather knew the Segall family because he lived around the corner from them in the Vilna ghetto. My grandfather acquired several of the paintings in the nineteen-twenties, out of sentiment—he thought Expressionism was trash. As did Hitler, actually. Lasar Segall himself was long gone from Lithuania by the twenties, and the Orthodox thought it was good riddance.
“Of course all my grandfather’s art was stolen once the war started. The advantage of a billion dollars: I was able to trace all but one of his Segalls. Those I keep at home, but the two here are very fine and I like to see them while I eat.”
It was disconcerting to hear a hyper-wealthy man speak so frankly and casually about his wealth. The waiter appeared with our food—cold salmon for Salanter, steak for me. My appetite disappeared as soon as I saw the food. The blood oozing onto the plate was uncomfortably like Leydon’s blood oozing onto the chapel floor.
Salanter didn’t comment on my unheartiness—he was ready for the meat of the meeting. “My daughter explained how you came to be involved in Wuchnik’s death, but she couldn’t say what you planned to do about it.”
“No, we didn’t discuss that,” I agreed.
The heavy black line contracted, but he asked, with exaggerated patience, “What do you plan to do about it?”
“There’s not much I can do, Mr. Salanter. He’s going to stay dead, no matter what I plan.”
“This is a serious matter, young woman. Flipness like that is out of place.”
“Mr. Salanter, you called this meeting. I have no idea what you want out of it, but I have had an extremely long day, what with dealing with the attack on your granddaughter this afternoon, and finding a good friend close to death. I am still covered with her blood and I would love to go home and take a bath. Tell me what you want as directly as possible and I’ll keep my flippancy to myself.”
“Are you investigating Wuchnik’s murder?”
I had a flash of glittering fantasies, on retainer to the twenty-first richest man in the world. “Would you like me to?”
“I would like you to leave the matter alone.”
“Leave it alone?” My voice rose half an octave. “When your foundation was attacked today as a result of Wuchnik’s death?”
He shook his head. “The foundation was attacked because of anti-immigration hysteria in this country, not because a man was killed.”
“But at least two commentators, Wade Lawlor and Helen Kendrick, tied your granddaughter’s presence at the murder site to their rabid commentaries. They accused Sophy Durango of being Wuchnik’s lover and there’s a ton of filth circulating the Net saying she killed him.”
“All the more reason to leave it alone,” he said sharply. “The more you dig, the more avid the flies who feed on filth become. Ignore the story and it dies on its own.”
“With respect, Mr. Salanter, is there anything in the history of the Jews in Europe that makes you believe that?”
“Americans use Hitler and Stalin as political insults far too freely, without any understanding of the context. The people spewing garbage, at me, at Sophy, at my foundation, are a tiny handful on the fringe. Most people in this country are decent and don’t act on hate.”
I thought of lynchings, and the murders of abortion providers, and the assaults on Muslims and gays, but I was too tired to argue. I needed what was left of my wits to try to understand what he really didn’t want to come to the surface about Wuchnik’s death.
“Did Miles Wuchnik work for you?” I asked.
“No, Ms. Warshawski. When I need information, I use a staff of more sophisticated investigators than this Wuchnik seems to have been. I’m asking you to leave the matter alone to keep from getting more hands on the spoon that’s stirring up pond scum.”
“Are you making the same request of the police?” I signaled to the waiter: I needed coffee. Armagnac on an empty stomach after a major trauma hadn’t been the best way to approach a meeting with a man like Salanter.
“The police understand that their duty is to find Wuchnik’s killer.”
I tried to parse this. Leydon would have done so standing on her head. No one had been more skilled at taking apart arguments.
I thought through the problem out loud. “To find the killer, period. You have asked the police to limit their investigation in some way. Perhaps the coincidence of your granddaughter playing at vampire and Wuchnik having a stake through his heart?”
He nodded courteously. The affable gesture told me my guess was wrong.
“I wouldn’t go out of my way to hurt your granddaughter,” I said. “You don’t think Arielle killed Wuchnik, do you?”