The wreckage was so confused and so violent that the worst abomination didn’t hit me for a few seconds. A body lay crumpled in the corner on the far side of the desk.
I walked gingerly past the mess of papers, trying not to disturb the chaos lest it contain any evidence. The man was dead. He held a gun in his hand, a Smith & Wesson .358, but he’d never used it. His neck had been broken, as nearly as I could tell without moving the body—I couldn’t see any wounds.
I lifted the head gently. The face stared at me impassively, the same expressionless face that had looked at me two nights ago in the lobby. It was the old black man who’d been on night duty. I lowered his head carefully and sprinted to Boom Boom’s lavish bathroom.
I drank a glass of water from the bathroom tap and the heaving subsided in my stomach. Using the phone next to the king-size bed to call the police, I noticed that the bedroom had come in for some minor disruption. The red and purple painting on the wall had been taken down and the magazines thrown to the floor. Drawers stood open in the polished walnut dresser and socks and underwear were on the floor.
I went through the rest of the apartment. Someone had clearly been looking for something. But what?
The night guard’s name had been Henry Kelvin. Mrs. Kelvin came with the police to identify the body, a dark, dignified woman whose grief was more impressive for the restraint with which she contained it.
The cops who showed up insisted on treating this as an ordinary break-in. Boom Boom’s death had been widely publicized. Some enterprising burglar no doubt took advantage of the situation; it was unfortunate that Kelvin had surprised him in the act. I kept pointing out that nothing of value had been taken but they insisted that Kelvin’s death had frightened off the intruders. In the end I gave up on it.
I called Margolis, the elevator foreman, to explain that I would be delayed, perhaps until the following day. At noon the police finished with me and took the body away on a stretcher. They were going to seal the apartment until they finished fingerprinting and analyzing everything.
I took a last look around. Either the intruders had found what they came for, or my cousin had hidden what they were looking for elsewhere, or there was nothing to find but they were running scared. My mind flicked to Paige Carrington. Love letters? How close had she been to Boom Boom, really? I needed to talk to her again. Maybe to some of my cousin’s friends as well.
Mrs. Kelvin was sitting stiffly on the edge of one of the nubby white sofas in the lobby. When I got off the elevator she came over to me.
“I need to talk to you.” Her voice was harsh, the voice of someone who wanted to cry and was becoming angry instead.
“All right. I have an office downtown. Will that do?”
She looked around the exposed lobby, at the residents staring at her on their way to and from the elevator, and agreed. She followed me silently outside and over to Delaware, where I’d found a place to squeeze my little Mercury. Someday I’d have enough money for something really wonderful, like an Audi Quarto. But in the meantime I buy American.
Mrs. Kelvin didn’t say anything on the way downtown. I parked the car in a garage across from the Pulteney Building. She didn’t spare a glance for the dirty mosaic floors and the pitted marble walls. Fortunately the tired elevator was functioning. It creaked down to the ground floor and saved me the embarrassment of asking her to climb the four flights to my office.
We walked to the east end of the hall where my office overlooks the Wabash Avenue el, the side where cheap rents are even lower because of the noise. A train was squeaking and rattling its way past as I unlocked the door and ushered her to the armchair I keep for visitors.
I took the seat behind my desk, a big wooden model I picked up at a police auction. My desk faces the wall so that open space lies between me and my clients. I’ve never liked using furniture for hiding or intimidating.
Mrs. Kelvin sat stiffly in the armchair, her black handbag upright in her lap. Her black hair was straightened and shaped away from her long face in severely regimented waves. She wore no makeup except for a dark orange lipstick.
“You talked to my husband Tuesday night, didn’t you?” she finally said.
“Yes, I did.” I kept my voice neutral. People talk more when you make yourself part of the scenery.
She nodded to herself. “He came home and told me about it. This job was pretty boring for him, so anything out of the way happened, he told me about it.” She nodded again. “You young Warshawski’s executor or something, that right?”
“I’m his cousin and his executor. My name is V. I. Warshawski.”