The Nest(31)

“Get back here, Sinatra.” The man snapped his fingers at the dog who returned to his owner’s side, whined, settled onto his haunches, and then resumed barking at Jack.

TOMMY O’TOOLE STARED at Jack for a few minutes. He was definitely related to Leo, the same WASPish features, thin lips, slightly beakish nose beneath dark hair. On Leo it all added up to something a little more impressive. Tommy enjoyed rattling the intruder. His clean-shaven face had gone green and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip and along the top of his generous forehead. His tweed coat looked like something Sherlock Holmes would wear. Jesus. Where did he think he was?

“You look through a window on some of the streets around here and people will shoot first and ask questions later,” Tommy said, knowing Jack wouldn’t recognize the exaggeration.

“You’re absolutely right. I will be more careful.” Jack lowered his hands and took a tentative step out of the garden patch. The dog lunged and Jack scrambled back inside the brick enclosure.

“Sinatra!” Tommy bent down and stroked the dog’s back. “Francis Albert. Be quiet.” The dog licked Tommy’s hand and whimpered a bit. “Sorry,” he said to Jack. “He’s very high-strung. I should have named him Jerry Lewis.”

“That’s very funny,” Jack said, without smiling. He stared at the dog who appeared to be some kind of pug mix with a short brown coat, black pushed-in snout, and slightly bulging blue eyes that were eerily Sinatra-like. Jack stepped out of the ivy one more time and looked down at his suede shoes, which were dampened with what he optimistically hoped was lingering morning dew but assumed was dog urine.

“What did you say your name was?” Tommy said.

“Jack. Plumb.” He extended a hand, and Tommy reluctantly stepped forward to shake it. Tommy didn’t trust this guy; there was something furtive, something not quite open about him. The kind of guy he’d keep his eye on if he were loitering around a lobby or a store.

“We’ve had a Peeping Tom in this neighborhood,” Tommy said. “Some creep who walks up to windows looking for women inside and whips it out in broad daylight. Sick bastard.”

“I assure you”—Jack placed one gloved hand over his heart—“I am not your Peeping Tom.”

“Yeah, I imagine not.”

“Do you know if they’re home?” Jack asked. “Leo or Stephanie? I thought I saw a light go on upstairs a few minutes ago.”

“I guess they’re gone for the day,” Tommy said. He suspected he wasn’t telling the truth. He thought he’d heard Stephanie walking around a few minutes ago.

“Listen,” Jack said, taking his phone from his pocket. “I’d like to call just in case someone is there and can’t hear the bell for whatever reason. Do you have Stephanie’s number? I’ve come all the way from Manhattan.”

“From Manhattan?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “The West Village.”

“That’s quite a trip. I guess you’ve been on the road what? Two, three days?”

Jack forced what he hoped was a self-deprecating laugh. God, he hated everyone. “I just meant I’d hate to get back across the bridge and discover they’d been in the shower or something.”

Tommy eyed Jack. If Stephanie were lying low, she wouldn’t answer the phone either. Also, he should probably offer Sherlock a paper towel or rag; he definitely had dog piss on his shoes.

“I’ll be quick,” Jack said. “I’d be incredibly grateful.”

“I’ve got her number inside.” Tommy gestured to the open door behind him. Jack followed Tommy and the dog into the front foyer, which was dark and nearly empty except for a few woolen jackets hanging on an overloaded hook by the door, a small card table with a landline receiver, and a poster on the wall from a Matisse retrospective at MoMA, which Jack assumed was left over from a previous tenant. The hallway smelled, incongruously, of potpourri. Something cinnamon heavy. Tommy stood in the doorway, watching Jack. The dog, calmer now, sniffed at Jack’s ankles.

“Stay here,” Tommy said. “I’ll get her number. It’s in the back.” He moved down the hallway to the back of the apartment where Jack could see a kitchen. The dog followed him, snorting. Jack looked through the open pocket doors into the living room. The furniture looked like castoffs, what Jack thought of as the divorced-man’s special. Two overstuffed flowery and worn sofas probably bestowed by a concerned female relative or friend. A sagging wicker bookcase, which housed a bunch of true crime paperbacks, out-of-date phone books, and an abandoned glass fish tank one-quarter full of loose change. The coffee table was covered with a pile of New York Posts turned to completed Sudoku puzzles.

A fairly decent pedestal table, something that must have sat in a much nicer room at one time, was covered with an assortment of framed family photos. Jack stepped into the living room to look at the table. Nice but not old. He surveyed the photos, lots of pictures of someone he assumed was the ex-wife and various family tableaux: weddings, babies, kids in Little League uniforms with gap-toothed grins holding bats half their size.

He could see through to the dining room, which was empty except for a plastic collapsible table surrounded by a few folding chairs and, oddly, in a dark corner of the room a sculpture sitting on top of a small wooden dolly on wheels. Jack thought he recognized the familiar shape of Rodin’s The Kiss. Figures, he thought, as tacky as everything else in the place, probably ordered from some late-night shopping network meant to woo the guy’s divorcée dates.