“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “Why would someone rent an apartment but not use it?”
“Lots of reasons. Maybe he doesn’t live in New York but has to come in all the time on business.”
Thomas was dubious. “That seems very wasteful.”
“People who have money don’t worry about being wasteful,” I said. “It’s just easier for them to have a place instead of renting a hotel room every time they come into town.”
That was a hard concept for Thomas to get his head around. “I don’t know. But what I do think is, it’s probably the Olsen woman who’s in the window. She got killed, and that’s why no one has seen her.”
“I see. And why was she killed?”
He thought a moment. “So Mr. Blocker could have her apartment when he came into Manhattan.”
I laughed. “Is that what you think this is about? Someone needed an apartment so they killed to get one?”
“I’ve heard that rental accommodation is hard to come by in New York,” Thomas said, dead serious.
“I was in the building. I don’t think those apartments are worth killing for.” I placed my palms on the table. “Look, Thomas, let’s take a moment to review. All we know is, two women used to live there, and now they don’t, and your landlord friend says Mr. Blocker now pays the rent on it but doesn’t actually live there.”
“The landlord’s not my friend. I don’t even know him.”
“Okay. But that little bit of information doesn’t add up to a murder.”
“Except one of the women is missing.”
“According to the landlord, who is not exactly a detective for the New York Police Department. Maybe the woman’s been found, but no one’s bothered to tell this guy.”
“That’s a good idea,” Thomas said.
“What’s a good idea?”
“Calling the New York Police Department.”
“I didn’t say that was a good idea. I just said that the landlord might not be your best source for information.”
“Then we should go to the best source.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Well, then, I can send an e-mail and ask the CIA to get in touch with them.”
Now, that was definitely not a good idea.
“Okay,” I said. “Leave this with me. I’ll put in a call to the New York police. Ask them about this missing woman, see if she turned up.”
“And tell them to go online, check out Orchard Street on Whirl360, and tell them to look at the face in the window.”
“Sure,” I said.
Thomas went back to eating his cereal. In my head, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. We were done with this. More done than Thomas realized. The odds of my picking up the phone to talk to the NYPD were about as good as anyone at the NYPD paying any attention to me if I actually made the call.
I could imagine how a New York detective would react when I told him my brother—the one now on file with the FBI for sending updates on his street memorization project to a former president—believed he’d seen a murder on the Internet.
Oh yeah, that was a call I wanted to make.
I said to Thomas, “Let me ask you something.”
“Go ahead,” he said, a drop of milk running down his chin.
“When this big meltdown happens, when all the online maps go kaplooey, what do you think is actually going to cause it?”
He put down his spoon and dabbed his chin with a paper napkin.
“I think the most likely cause will be an alien attack,” he said matter-of-factly. “The attack will most likely come from beyond our own solar system, although I think it’s possible it could be launched from either Venus or Mars. Once the aliens disable our mapping systems, it’ll be easier for them to make their landings undetected.”
A sad, hopeless feeling enveloped me.
“Gotcha,” Thomas said, never even cracking a smile. “You should see your face.”
I told Thomas I was driving into town and would be back in an hour or so.
Clicking away, he said, “Uh-huh.”
“I’d like you to make lunch today,” I said. “For both of us. And I’ll do dinner.”
He stopped and spun around in his chair. “Do I clean up, too?”
“Yes. Hey, Julie was saying, back in high school, you kind of had a thing for Margaret Tursky. That true?”
“I don’t see where that’s any of your business.”
I gave it a shot.
“Catch ya later,” I said. He nodded and returned to work. I didn’t think I’d be gone long enough for him to get into any mischief, but you could never know for sure.
I pulled into the driveway of a single-story ranch on Ridgeway Drive and rang the bell. It was Marie Prentice who answered.
“Why, Ray, what a surprise!” she said, holding open the screen door. She shouted back into the house: “Len! Ray’s here! Ray, did you bring your brother? Is he in the car?”
“I came alone, Marie,” I said, stepping into their house.