One Way or Another(49)

“Why, it must be antique,” she said, stretching out her hand to touch its smooth, pale blue surface. “See how the light filters through it, I’ll bet it’s Limoges and rare, at that, because of the color.”

“Mr. Ahmet likes to use his antiques,” the man managed in deeply accented English, and Martha nodded; she had heard that before. It was a pity Ahmet’s good taste did not extend to his furnishings, but she could take care of that. She glanced at her watch, wondering where Marco was, what he was doing, probably still on the track of the missing girl, though what he expected he could do about it was beyond her. Last time they’d spoken he’d been on his way to talk to the Brooklyn police.

Ahmet had left them alone to assess what he called “the damage,” and because Martha did not know which of the many rooms he was in she now called him on his cell.

“I’ll be right with you,” he answered. And he was, and with him was Mehitabel, unsmiling, frozen into a kind of sartorial perfection Martha knew she could never hope to emulate. Feeling outdated in her tweed skirt and green, waxed, all-weather jacket, which was in fact far more suitable for a trip to the country than Mehitabel’s obviously very expensive black cashmere dress that fit like a second skin on a body Lucy certainly envied, Martha said they had seen enough to be getting on with and she would be in touch with her suggestions and a proper presentation, with sketches and samples, and of course, alternatives for both since she knew how hard it was for inexperienced clients to make a decision.

“Anyhow, I’m here to help you with that,” she said briskly, because she was suddenly in need of getting out of there, but then Lucy said first she had to go to the loo.

Mehitabel showed Lucy to the bathroom off the main hall and she disappeared inside, leaving Martha to make conversation with a woman who, for some reason, intimidated her. One way she had found to get out of these situations was to ask questions, and not answer any herself.

“So, Mehitabel,” she said, with a cheerful smile, “how long have you worked for Mr. Ghulbian?”

Mehitabel eyed her coldly. “I do not ‘work’ for Mr. Ghulbian. I am his personal assistant. And you might say it’s been a lifetime.”

“Ohh. Right, well of course … I see…” Martha did not see at all. She turned her eyes from Mehitabel to the staircase with its patterned red carpet. “I wonder if you know then, since you are so close to Mr. Ghulbian, when we might be able to change that carpet, maybe get upstairs, take a look around. Obviously it will need some changes too.”

Her smile faded as Mehitabel stared implacably back with not even an expression of interest. Her voice was chilly as she said, “Do not bother yourself with the upstairs. Your job is to take care of the main rooms down here. Mr. Ghulbian is no doubt paying you well and will expect the best results. If not,” she shrugged, “trust me, everyone will know about it. This job can make or break you, Miss Patron. You had better be very careful.”

Martha swore later to Lucy, she’d felt a chill crawl up her spine. “It was like I was on trial,” she said angrily. “I was hired by Ahmet for who I am, what I do, my reputation, my taste, my experience, and this bitch is putting all that on the line. Warning me off. As though she owns him or something. And anyhow, why can’t we look upstairs? What’s she got hidden up there that’s so special we can’t see it?”

Lucy said, “She must be mad or something.” She tried the pizza guy again. Again no reply. Shit.





34

Marco’s next stop was a Brooklyn police precinct, but even there he did not trust enough to leave his bike outside. He carried it in and planted it on the floor beside him by the front desk, eyed by a female police officer, who, with her round face and pulled-back brown hair, in her blue uniform shirt and badge, looked all of sixteen. He thought either cops were getting younger or he was getting older. Interesting face, though; strong bones, probably Russian or East European descent. The artist in Marco always emerged; he never simply looked, he took it all in, that is until he realized she was eying him warily, then he apologized and told her his mission.

“I need to speak to the detective in charge of the Angela Morse case.” He propped the bike against his hip and showed her his passport as proof of identity, so she wouldn’t think he was simply another nut drifting in off the street seeking a bit of notoriety.

“And why would you need to do that, Mr. Mahoney?” She handed back the passport and looked him in the eye.

“Because I was there when she was killed,” he said simply.

That got her attention, though she did fling him an under-the-lashes look as she tapped a name on her computer and awaited a reply. It came immediately.

“Detective Moreira will be out in a minute,” she said, handing him several sheets of paper. “Just fill out these forms first.”

Marco took a seat on a gray plastic chair, glanced at the sheaf of forms, and decided to ignore them. He was losing patience with bureaucracy; if they were interested in what he had to say, they could listen and make their own notes. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He grabbed it, saw it was Martha.

“Hey, hon,” he said in a low voice. “Wazzup?”

He heard her laugh and was immediately cheered.

“You’re even talking like them now,” she said.

“Waddya’ mean?” He laughed too. “Whatever,” he said, “it gets the message across, though nobody seems to know anything at all about Angie Morse, other than she was a nice girl. Young woman,” he added. “Have to be politically correct.”