stood by the elevator and
pushed number ten for me. Yet another opened the door to the
apartment and ushered me inside.
The apartment was done in white and black.
White walls with postmodern paintings, white marble floor, black
furniture. Blinky was smart enough not to decorate it himself, or
it would have tended toward heavy red velvet.
Abe Socolow and his buddy, the Anglo
homicide detective, were sitting on a black leather sofa in the
living room. Through an open sliding glass door, I saw a woman
standing on the balcony, her back to me. I recognized the long,
dark hair and angular frame of Josefina Jovita Baroso.
No one was talking. They had been here for a
while. It gave off the feel of a homicide scene, and I was sure I’d
be ushered into another room for a gander at Blinky’s body. The
air-conditioning was turned up high, and I shivered in my
seersucker suit. Cops sometimes try to chill down homicide scenes.
They’re not immune to the smells any more than the rest of us. But
I didn’t detect the sticky-sweet scent of fresh blood or the rot of
decaying flesh, and Blinky, I remembered, kept his thermostat at
sixty, lest he sweat through his silk undershorts.
Abe Socolow motioned for me to sit down, or
maybe recline, in an uncomfortable black plastic chair shaped like
a tilde. On a glass coffee table were three stylish candles of
different lengths, propped in rough-hewn holders that looked like
black granite. Next to the candles was a heavy art book that I was
sure had never been opened by Blinky, unless he had started selling
fake van Goghs. I eased into the chair without slipping a disk, and
Socolow said, “So where the hell is he?”
“ Blinky?”
“ No, Judge
Crater.”
“ He’s not here? He’s not
dead?”
“ I’m going to ask you
again. Where is he?”
“ Abe, I think we’ve had
this conversation before.”
“ Yeah, except you left
something out.” He tossed a leather-bound pocket calendar on the
coffee table, then flipped it open. “Go ahead, look at
it.”
There it was, in Blinky’s
scrawl, on Sunday, June 26. Yesterday. 10-ish. Meet Jake .
“ Ten-ish,” I said aloud.
“Sounds like Andre Agassi with a lisp.”
“ C’mon, Jake. You can do
better than that.”
Actually, I couldn’t. “What’re you driving
at?”
“ You told us you hadn’t
seen Baroso since Thursday.”
“ It’s the
truth.”
Socolow cleared his throat. He sounded like
a hungry pit bull. “You also told us you weren’t expecting anyone
last night.”
“ I wasn’t. Not at home,
anyway.”
The detective stirred on the sofa. “We could
bust you right now for obstruction.”
“ What good would that do?”
I asked.
Neither one answered me. They both wanted my
help, and jerking me around wasn’t going to get it. The detective
said, “We sent a squad car over here last night after you called
in. No one was home. The security guard says Baroso pulled out of
the garage sometime around eight or eight-thirty in his green Range
Rover and comes back maybe three hours later. A little while after
that, Baroso leaves again, burning rubber pulling out of the
garage, nearly sideswiping a car pulling in. We got a search
warrant this morning, and here we are.”
“ What’s the charge,” I
asked, “reckless driving?”
Socolow ignored the crack and said, “Here’s
how I see it. Baroso and Hornback come to your house, hoping you’ll
mediate a dispute. Baroso knows Hornback’s set to give a statement
and he’s prepared to pay to keep him quiet. But without you around
to referee, the negotiations don’t go so well, and Baroso ends up
slipping Hornback a Mickey, then strangling him. After stringing
him up, Baroso comes back here, gathers whatever he needs and
flees.”
“ Flees,” I repeated,
because the word always sounded silly to me.
“ Take a look around,”
Socolow said, seeming to wonder if I was mocking him. “Dirty dishes
still in the sink. Bedroom’s a mess, clothes tossed from the
closet,
pushed number ten for me. Yet another opened the door to the
apartment and ushered me inside.
The apartment was done in white and black.
White walls with postmodern paintings, white marble floor, black
furniture. Blinky was smart enough not to decorate it himself, or
it would have tended toward heavy red velvet.
Abe Socolow and his buddy, the Anglo
homicide detective, were sitting on a black leather sofa in the
living room. Through an open sliding glass door, I saw a woman
standing on the balcony, her back to me. I recognized the long,
dark hair and angular frame of Josefina Jovita Baroso.
No one was talking. They had been here for a
while. It gave off the feel of a homicide scene, and I was sure I’d
be ushered into another room for a gander at Blinky’s body. The
air-conditioning was turned up high, and I shivered in my
seersucker suit. Cops sometimes try to chill down homicide scenes.
They’re not immune to the smells any more than the rest of us. But
I didn’t detect the sticky-sweet scent of fresh blood or the rot of
decaying flesh, and Blinky, I remembered, kept his thermostat at
sixty, lest he sweat through his silk undershorts.
Abe Socolow motioned for me to sit down, or
maybe recline, in an uncomfortable black plastic chair shaped like
a tilde. On a glass coffee table were three stylish candles of
different lengths, propped in rough-hewn holders that looked like
black granite. Next to the candles was a heavy art book that I was
sure had never been opened by Blinky, unless he had started selling
fake van Goghs. I eased into the chair without slipping a disk, and
Socolow said, “So where the hell is he?”
“ Blinky?”
“ No, Judge
Crater.”
“ He’s not here? He’s not
dead?”
“ I’m going to ask you
again. Where is he?”
“ Abe, I think we’ve had
this conversation before.”
“ Yeah, except you left
something out.” He tossed a leather-bound pocket calendar on the
coffee table, then flipped it open. “Go ahead, look at
it.”
There it was, in Blinky’s
scrawl, on Sunday, June 26. Yesterday. 10-ish. Meet Jake .
“ Ten-ish,” I said aloud.
“Sounds like Andre Agassi with a lisp.”
“ C’mon, Jake. You can do
better than that.”
Actually, I couldn’t. “What’re you driving
at?”
“ You told us you hadn’t
seen Baroso since Thursday.”
“ It’s the
truth.”
Socolow cleared his throat. He sounded like
a hungry pit bull. “You also told us you weren’t expecting anyone
last night.”
“ I wasn’t. Not at home,
anyway.”
The detective stirred on the sofa. “We could
bust you right now for obstruction.”
“ What good would that do?”
I asked.
Neither one answered me. They both wanted my
help, and jerking me around wasn’t going to get it. The detective
said, “We sent a squad car over here last night after you called
in. No one was home. The security guard says Baroso pulled out of
the garage sometime around eight or eight-thirty in his green Range
Rover and comes back maybe three hours later. A little while after
that, Baroso leaves again, burning rubber pulling out of the
garage, nearly sideswiping a car pulling in. We got a search
warrant this morning, and here we are.”
“ What’s the charge,” I
asked, “reckless driving?”
Socolow ignored the crack and said, “Here’s
how I see it. Baroso and Hornback come to your house, hoping you’ll
mediate a dispute. Baroso knows Hornback’s set to give a statement
and he’s prepared to pay to keep him quiet. But without you around
to referee, the negotiations don’t go so well, and Baroso ends up
slipping Hornback a Mickey, then strangling him. After stringing
him up, Baroso comes back here, gathers whatever he needs and
flees.”
“ Flees,” I repeated,
because the word always sounded silly to me.
“ Take a look around,”
Socolow said, seeming to wonder if I was mocking him. “Dirty dishes
still in the sink. Bedroom’s a mess, clothes tossed from the
closet,
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