“Nick,” I said, “we’re investigating a murder here. Finish what you were going to say.”
He plopped into a cushy armchair and immediately stood up again. “You guys have to sit down. I can’t talk if you’re going to stand there hovering over me like a couple of dark clouds.”
Kylie and I sat on the sofa. Nick reclaimed his spot in the chair.
“Aubrey was a sex addict, but she wasn’t like one of those party girls who really likes screwing. It was different for her.”
“Different,” Kylie repeated. Her body shifted on the sofa, and she turned toward him. “How so?”
She asked the question offhandedly, but I recognized the tone. Kylie is a hunter, a puma lying in wait for the gazelle.
Nick sat back in his chair. “She only got off if the guy was dishing out physical pain or putting her through abject humiliation.”
“That’s very helpful,” Kylie said. “And your wife has trouble dealing with that fact?”
“Dealing? I don’t know if Claudia even has a clue.”
“Then how do you know so much about your sister-in-law’s sexual preferences?” Kylie asked, her fierce green eyes locking into his limp brown-eyed gaze.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nick said, holding up his hands. “Back off, lady.”
“I’m not a lady. I’m a homicide detective, and if I even smell that you’re holding out on me, I will slap a pair of cuffs on you and haul you in for obstructing justice.”
Nick looked at me for help.
“She’ll do it,” I said. “And I’ll back her up. Answer the question: how do you know what your wife’s sister got off on?”
He looked at me like I’d just handed him a shovel and told him to start digging his own grave.
“This is between us, okay? If Claudia ever knew…”
“If it’s not directly related to our investigation, then it’s our secret,” Kylie said. “We don’t tell your wife, and we don’t even put it in our report.”
He nodded. It wasn’t exactly an ironclad guarantee, but he knew it was the best he was going to get.
“It happened five years ago,” he said, easing into his story. “Claudia had just given birth to our first kid. It was a C-section, so she was in the hospital for a couple of days. It was the second night, and visiting hours were over, so Aubrey and I left together. It started out innocent enough. We were just going to have a couple of drinks and get something to eat.”
He paused, hoping we could figure out the rest on our own. I decided to help him out.
“And one thing led to another?” I said.
“Claudia had complications during the pregnancy. She cut me off in her sixth month. I was horny as a stallion and plenty drunk. Aubrey was even drunker and plenty willing. We went back to her place.”
“And?”
“And the girl was a total freak show. Hey, I’m all in favor of getting a little kinky—leather, role-playing, the kind of shit you read about in those “Spice Up Your Sex Life” articles in magazines—but when a chick begs me to put a cigarette butt out on her nipple, I draw the line.”
“Did you ever consummate the relationship with her?”
“No. I guess I sobered up in a hurry. When I realized what a hot mess she was, I got out of there.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “You must think I’m a real hypocrite. I would’ve fucked my wife’s sister, but I wouldn’t paddle her, whip her, or piss on her. But trust me, there’s a city full of guys who would, and she knew where to find every one of them.”
“How many other names can you give us besides Janek Hoffmann?”
“None. Zero. I swear. I never asked. I didn’t want to know. The only reason I knew Janek was that he was her cameraman, and they had this serious on-again, off-again relationship for over a year. I saw a lot of him. And I saw the bruises on her. I didn’t have to ask him if he did it. He’s the kind of guy who has to beat the shit out of someone, and Aubrey was the kind of woman who needed the beating. It was a match made in sadomasochist heaven.”
“Do you know where Janek Hoffmann lives?” I asked.
His body sagged, and he slumped down in his chair. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Somewhere in Brooklyn.”
Somewhere in Brooklyn turned out to be a block from where Aubrey’s car was parked.
CHAPTER 9
If New York City is a melting pot, then Brooklyn is the cultural hodgepodge that gives the stew its special kick. Throw a dart at a map of the world, and no matter where it sticks, the odds are there’s a mini-version of that country in Brooklyn.
Janek Hoffmann lived in Little Poland, a microneighborhood in Greenpoint, the northernmost section of the borough.
Kylie and I drove across the Pulaski Bridge, past alphabetically organized streets—Ash, Box, Clay, Dupont, Eagle—until we hit a working-class enclave where the mom-and-pop pharmacies are called apetkas, the butcher shops stock dozens of varieties of kielbasa, and the restaurants have hard-to-pronounce and impossible-to-spell names like Karczma and Lomzynianka.
Hoffmann lived in a five-story walk-up, across the street from a Catholic church and a short walk from where Aubrey Davenport had parked her car.
Rule number one when you’re making a house call: Don’t let the suspect know you’re coming. We entered the building, and I rang the super’s bell.
He buzzed us in and met us in the vestibule. It was only 5:15, but he was already dressed and working on a mug of coffee.
Rule number two: The super doesn’t have to unlock an apartment door just because a cop wants to question a tenant. You’d better give him a good reason to let you in.
“NYPD,” Kylie said. “We’ve been sent to check on Janek Hoffmann. His girlfriend was found murdered, and we’re concerned that it could be a double homicide. We need to make sure he’s all right.”
Rule number three: The super almost always knows you’re full of shit, but if you give him what he needs to cover his ass, he’ll usually cooperate.
This one did. “Four B,” he said, flipping through the oversize key ring attached to his belt. “Follow me.”
He led us to the fourth floor, unlocked Hoffmann’s door, and left in a hurry.
The first thing that hit me when we entered was the smell. Correction: smells. Sweat-stained gym clothes piled up in a corner, rancid food containers on the kitchen table, and the nasty, burnt-plastic stench of crack cocaine.
The second thing I noticed was the body lying facedown on the living room floor. He didn’t smell that sweet, either.
Kylie looked at me, pointed at the human heap, then reversed her finger and tapped her chest. Translation: This prick beats up women. He’s mine.
I nodded, and she drew back her foot and gave him a not-so-gentle nudge under his rib cage.
He groaned, rolled over, and looked up at us. “Who the fuck are you?”
“We’re from Better Homes and Gardens. We’re here for the photo shoot.” She flashed her badge. “Who did you think we were, asshole?”
She kicked him again, and he instinctively clenched his fists.
“Come on. Get up and hit me,” she taunted.
He stood up as far as he could go, which was only about five foot six inches high. But what he lacked in height he made up for in bulk. His biceps looked like they came off the label on a tub of whey protein powder, and his skintight muscle shirt showed off every pec, delt, and ab on his upper torso.
“Janek Hoffmann?” she said.
“Yeah, I live here. How did you get in?” he asked, staggering over to a tattered lime-green sofa that even the Salvation Army wouldn’t try to salvage.
“Your cleaning lady left the door open. Do you know Aubrey Davenport?”
That got his attention. He struggled to fight his way through a substance-induced fog.
“I work for her,” he said. “Well, technically, she fired me. But she’ll take me back. She always does.”
“When did you last see her?”
He closed his eyes and squeezed out an answer. “Friday.”
“You sure you didn’t see her last night?”
The eyes popped open, angry, challenging. “I told you: she fired me. The bitch makes me repent for a week before she calls and gives me another chance. It’s all part of her twisted dance.”
“Where were you last night?”