her backpack, and tossed the book in the next trash can she passed. She had to keep moving.
5.
Nell waited until the next morning to break Arthur Wendt’s no-contact rule. She swung by his place with two tall cups from Starbucks in a cardboard cradle, a peace offering in the making. She hoped to sit down with him, provide an appropriate level of encouragement to cooperate, find out what he had for her, and then vanish before his wife came home.
The squad cars along the curb set her on edge. When the elevator chimed and let her out on five, and she saw all the heads poking into the hallway like gophers from half-open holes, her stomach flipped the rest of the way over.
A rubber wedge propped Arthur’s door open. Uniforms were coming and going, and an officer who looked barely old enough to shave had pulled move-along duty, standing outside like a statue. Nell knew she’d only get one shot to steal a peek, and a fast one at that. Then again, she had a fresh distraction.
“Coffee,” she said, brandishing her cardboard tray. The cop blinked.
“For me?” he asked.
“You’re protecting our building, and we want you to feel appreciated.”
“Uh, thanks,” he said. His hand hovered near the closest cup, but he didn’t take it. That was fine—she didn’t care what he did, she just wanted a few seconds of uninterrupted eavesdropping. She flicked her gaze to his left and took a mental snapshot.
Swanky place. Floor-to-ceiling custom bookshelves, California king with burgundy silk sheets. Another sheet, this one bleach white and issued by the city, draped a motionless Arthur-sized lump in the middle of the room. Crime-scene techs were swirling, taking pictures, measuring angles.
“I’m sorry,” the kid said, “but I can’t have people standing here. I’ve got to ask you to move.”
Too nice, too uncertain of his own authority. They were going to eat him alive on the street. Nell finished her assessment with a pair of cut-crystal glasses. One on the nightstand, one on a credenza, both still cradling the dregs of a bottle of red wine.
“Did you catch the guy?” she asked, conversational.
“The…the guy?”
“Who killed Arthur Wendt.”
“Ma’am, I really can’t comment on that. Now, if you’ll please move along—”
A new face loomed in the doorway. Dark skin, high cheekbones, eyes like a surgeon’s scalpel. He reached out and plucked one of the cups from Nell’s tray.
“You,” he said to the rookie between sips of coffee, “go inside and see if anyone needs a hand. Failing that, stand in the corner and be quiet. Bluth, the hell are you doing here?”
“Detective Jordan,” she said as the red-faced officer vanished. “Maybe I live in this building.”
He snorted. “On a reporter’s salary? You couldn’t afford to live in the dumpster out back. Try again.”
“Arthur Wendt.” She gestured to the lump under the sheet, daring him to deny it. He didn’t bother.
“What about him?”
“He’s a source.”
“What kind of source?”
“The confidential kind,” she said. “You know how that works.”
Jordan looked over his shoulder at the sheet-draped corpse. He shrugged.
“Bet I won’t hear him complain if you tell me more.”
“It’s an ongoing investigation, just like yours,” she said. “You get a collar?”
He leaned against the doorframe.
“Nah. Report came in an hour ago when his cleaning lady found him. ME estimates the corpse is seven or eight hours cold.”
“What does the night doorman say?”
“Gotta give to get, Bluth.”
She weighed what she had against what she wanted. She dropped her voice low.
“He had some potentially explosive info about his employer.”
“Barron Equity,” Jordan said. He’d done his homework.
“That’s right.”
“How explosive are we talking?”
She knew where he was angling and gently walked him back.
“You’re asking if I think a financial-services company sent a guy around with a gun, and the answer is no. Last year, Barron was tangled up in a few of the Buffalo Billion scandals. They bought off everybody who squawked and sued the rest. No need for the rough stuff.”
“What if they already tried buying him off?” Jordan asked.
“They didn’t try suing him. Tell me about the night doorman.”
“Nothing to tell, because between one and two in the morning he was out taking his meal break. Conveniently missed any and all commotion.”
Nell stared at him, incredulous. “On Fifth Avenue? Condos like this never leave the front desk uncovered, especially at night. He would have had someone to take over for him.”
“That’s his story and he’s sticking to it, right up to the edge of demanding a lawyer.”